


Valentine Blind

by FourCornersHolmes



Series: Valentine Blind [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot (2016)
Genre: And Then He's..., Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Borrowed Iain MacKelpie from WTF, Crossover, Established Mycroft Holmes/Greg Lestrade, F/M, Gen, Greg Lestrade is a VERY good friend, Greg Lestrade is a saint, Hannah Watson is an Idiot, Hannah's family is growing, I Don't Even Know, I hate myself, I never thought I'd tag that, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Idiots in Love, Just read, M/M, Past Sherlock Holmes/Victor Trevor, Post-Season/Series 04, Post-Series, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, SPOILERS! NO!, Scotland, Scottish characters - Freeform, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Holmes is an idiot, Sherlock has a big family, Sherlock is Married to His Work, The Holmes Clan is NOT Small, Who is Hannah Watson?, Why Did I Write This?, no more tags, not sorry, please?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-02
Updated: 2018-01-03
Packaged: 2019-02-27 06:55:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 17
Words: 59,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13242903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FourCornersHolmes/pseuds/FourCornersHolmes
Summary: Hannah Watson is a returning veteran home from the Afghanistan campaigns, with more nightmares, PTSD-that-isn't-quite, and emotional baggage than most people own pairs of shoes. Her mundane, miserable existence is upended very literally one day while she's out on her routine trip out from her flat. She runs into Sherlock Holmes and, by extension of that encounter, Greg Lestrade. Needless to say, Hannah's life is never going to be the same again. A rogue Consulting Detective with as many problems as she has and a heart of gold might just be what Hannah needs to make a difference in her life. She has certainly made a difference in his, even if she doesn't recall doing so as clearly as he does. Even if there's a history between them they have both forgotten.





	1. Encounter In Whitechapel

**Author's Note:**

> A Watson upholding a family legacy of service to Crown and Country comes to London after leaving said service. She doesn't come home, London has never been her home. Home is...somewhere else. Time for her to find where she is happiest.  
> ::  
> Valentine Blind was inspired by, of course, Valentine's Day, but also by the theory that true love is blind and most depictions of Cupid show them blindfolded. No road is ever smooth, and love can certainly be one hell of a bumpy ride.  
> ::  
> Rated and tagged for safety

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Returned veteran Hannah Watson lives an unexciting life in London, surviving a miserably predictable daily grind in a little bedsit flat and leaving only to make her appointments. That all changes when she meets Sherlock Holmes. After a close call in which she nearly gets herself killed in the course of a foot-chase, she takes off to bring the responsible party (not Sherlock, btw) to justice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> At the start of Valentine Blind: Hannah is 44, Sherlock is 39, Mycroft is 49, and Lestrade is 52. Hannah sits exactly between the brothers in regards to age, five years dead on the mark between the two of them. Mycroft is 10 years older than Sherlock in this story. See the end notes for more.

* * *

Hannah Watson didn’t believe in things like fate, especially not since she’d been shot and shipped home half-delirious and with no prospects. She had a fine pension, access to counselling, and a few more medals for her dress-uniform jackets, but…she didn’t have a job, she didn’t have stable housing, and she didn’t have any friends or family to talk to or go to when things got rough. So, when she woke up on the morning of December 13th, she was dreading the day for many reasons. It was hard to motivate herself to get out of bed and prepare for her day, but she did it.

Grabbing her bag, she slung it over her good shoulder, picked up her cane, made sure she had her phone, and set off into the crowded, bustling streets of a city that just didn’t feel like home. And really, London had never been home, it was a place she had lived for a while, at different times in her life, but…it wasn’t home. She lived in a cramped studio-flat in Whitechapel, never left except to make her counselling appointments or get food, which almost never got eaten, and didn’t really talk to anyone. She wasn’t even sure her neighbours knew her name. That was fine, though. As she walked from her flat to Aldgate East Station, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. It wasn’t until she was crossing Whitechapel High Street at Commercial Street that anything actually happened. She was waiting for the traffic-signal when there was a commotion behind her.

“Stop! Stop!” Someone shouted, people reacted in different ways. There was shouting, profanities were uttered, and someone knocked into Hannah from behind. Her balance was iffy on the best days, and this was not a good day for her. So, when she was knocked off-balance, she went down hard. The shouts of the bystanders took on a new tone as she stumbled off the kerb, but no one could catch her as she stepped right into the line of traffic. Whoever had knocked her over was long gone by now, and her only instinct was to duck and make herself a smaller target for on-coming traffic. But before her knees touched the asphalt, she was dragged backwards. She landed hard on the pavement, and she didn’t think she’d hit her head, but Hannah wasn’t sure the man kneeling over her was real, either. One hand cradled her head, to keep her from getting a concussion, and one knee was between her thighs.

“Are you alright?” She hadn’t expected his voice to sound like that, it was in the middle of the baritone register, smooth and almost soothing. There was a clipped tone to it, a breathless quality. Had he been the one shouting just now?

“What?”

“Are you alright?” He repeated the question, more slowly, “I do hate repeating myself.”

“No, no. I…I’m fine. I’m…alright.” She coughed, “No, I’m fine.”

“Good. Stay.” With that, he was up on his feet and asking Hannah which way she thought she had seen her assailant go.

“Er, that way, I think? He’s…you’re not going to catch him!”

“Watch me!” She could have sworn he winked at her before disappearing, shouting at someone behind them, “Lestrade! Take care of her! I’ll be right back!” And in the time it took her to blink, her mysterious saviour was gone in a whirl of motion, coattails flaring and giving his coat the appearance of a cape as he took off.

“Wait! Sherlock! Don’t…fuck, there he goes.” It didn’t take long before she was surrounded. A tall, grey-haired gentleman stood in front of her, getting to one knee so he could see her and she could see him.

“Are you alright, ma’am?”

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little winded is all.” She leaned her head back, “Who was that?”

“Which one?”

“The tall one.”

“Oh, that’s my brother-in-law.” The man smirked and took her hand, pressing two fingers to her wrist, “Do I need an ambulance for you?”

“No, I shouldn’t think so.” She shook her head and looked for the tall stranger, “What’s his name?”

“Sherlock Holmes. If you haven’t heard his name before, you’ve either been out of town or living under a very large rock.”

“Sherlock…Holmes.” She tried the name, it was familiar. She didn’t know why, but it was a name she knew.

“Did you happen to see which way he went?”

“That way.” She pointed down Commercial Street to her left, “But your wanted man went straight.”

“Oh, that moron. If he gets into a scrape, I’m going to have some words for him.” The Yarder huffed, clearly annoyed with Holmes’s behaviour. “Can you stand?”

“I think so. Give me a hand?”

“Yeah, sure.” He got up, held out one hand, and gave her both when she asked.

“Sorry, bad days like this my knee locks up.” 

“You’re kind of young for that sort of trouble, aren’t you?”

“Might be.”

“On three, then?”

“On three.” She tightened her grip on his arms, grateful he wasn’t questioning her need for a little patience and an extra hand. The cold weather always made her aches and pains that much worse, today was absolutely no exception. She counted in her head, he counted out loud, and on the count of three, they got her back to her feet. She groaned as she got her feet under her and brushed off her jeans. She’d lost her cane somewhere in the chaos, which was just one thing of many that weren’t looking very good for today. Suddenly, from somewhere distant of them, she heard a yell. It sounded like Holmes. She had no idea where he might have been in the vicinity that she was able to hear him shout, but her body was still in flight-or-fight mode and her brain kicked over from the instinct to protect herself to the instinct to protect others. Before she could remind her stupid body of two very important things, neither of which were really that important just momentarily, she turned in the direction of the shout she’d heard and took one step away from the kind police officer. He was probably a detective, a senior detective no less, high on the ladder but still with both feet firmly in the field.

“Where are you going?”

“I heard something.” She listened, separating different levels of ambient sound around her. “I think we have a problem.”

“Oh, not you, too! Hang on!” He tried to make a grab for her, but she was already on the move. Hannah let instinct guide her steps and after two blocks, her body remembered how to run and she was sprinting. She felt nothing thanks to the adrenaline, and she didn’t have time to worry about the excruciating pain she would be in later as she tore around a corner and caught up with Holmes. She saw the suspect ahead of him and when he ducked right, Holmes lost him and went straight. Hannah groaned and went right. She took a hard corner, swung close to the wall, and came upon the runner. He didn’t see her, didn’t know she was behind him, and she tackled him from behind, taking him to ground in a side-street between Brick Lane and Code Street. They rolled and tussled a bit, but she had fought men his size and bigger and ended up pinning him face-down, both arms pulled behind in a full-nelson hold, and was sitting on him to hold him down when Holmes came tearing around the corner.

“Oh my god! Where did you come from?”

“Where you left me.” She grunted as the suspect under her bucked. “You, knock it off! You could have gotten me killed, you fucker, so stay still or I’ll break both your arms!”

“You couldn’t break me in two, girlie!” The man huffed.

“Sir, I’m the one who’s sitting on your back. Believe me, I can do that and far worse.” To prove her point, she put specific pressure on his right arm and he yelled.

“Okay, okay! I won’t! Please!”

“That’s better.” She patted him on the shoulder with one hand and put her weight down in strategic places. Sirens sounded moments later and she looked at Holmes, who was breathing hard and wild-eyed with the rush of a good foot-chase.

“What do you want to bet that’s your cop buddy?”

“Oh, that’s him. Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” She grinned up at the tall man who had saved her from getting hit by traffic back on Whitechapel High Street, “Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Saving me. You pulled me out of traffic before I could get hurt, maybe killed.”

“I don’t think my brother would be too pleased if he found out that you had gotten yourself killed or seriously injured in a traffic accident.” Holmes paced a bit, looking at his phone, “I guarantee he saw it all on the CCTV cameras, I’m almost surprised he hasn’t called looking for you.”

“Why would your brother care what happens to me? I don’t have any family or friends in London.”

“My brother is the one who got you the Victoria Cross and the Conspicuous Gallantry Cross. And quite likely the rest of your decorations, merits, and orders.” Holmes looked up as a gang of police descended on them, “He would have seen you granted a Damehood if he’d been able to get away with it.”

“Who is your brother?”

“My brother is Mycroft Holmes. You and I have met at least once before this, Captain Watson.”

“Mycroft…Mycroft Holmes?” She tilted her head, “Wait a minute.”

“Six months before you were shot outside of a village in Helmand, you risked your life and that of your entire squad to rescue a diplomat from a caravan that had come under enemy fire. You carried him, by yourself and with a shrapnel fragment in your leg, four miles to a village you knew was friendly to ISAF forces to get help. It took three days to get a chopper out to airlift you and your men, and another three weeks before you let them airlift the diplomat to Germany.” He helped her up as a few constables came to collect the suspect, “You never asked his name, never cared about who he was or where he had come from, what business he had in Afghanistan to begin with, to you he was someone with a family somewhere, people who cared about him and would miss him if something went wrong.”

“I found a picture of you in his pocket and asked him who you were. I knew you were important to him, men like that don’t just carry random pictures.” Hannah brushed off her jeans, “He told me you were his brother, younger by ten years and with a head for the worst kind of trouble. I told him he didn’t have much room to talk, given his current condition. I gave him back the photograph and told him to take care with it and with you. I didn’t have much of a family to miss me, but he did, and I would make sure he got back to them.”

“He did. Spent two months in a private hospital in Scotland, three months recovering in the family seat, and returned to London a changed man.”

“I remember your brother, but I didn’t know who he was at the time. My guys thought he was dead when we found him, but I knew he wasn’t, I did everything I could to save his life.”

“You saved my life, too, Captain. A year before you saved my brother’s.”

“I remember yours better than his.” She sniffed and looked up at the sky, “High-profile mission, blacked out, not even a name, dark entry to the location and orders to fire-bomb the place off the map when we were done. You were delirious when we found you, skinny as a rail, desperately in need of a shower and a barber, and a good doctor on top of that. You asked me…”

“If you were an angel.” He took her hand, “Thank you, Captain.”

“You need to stop getting yourself into trouble, Mr Holmes. Or at least get into trouble you don’t need me getting you out of.”

“You’ve been following the papers.”

“Absolutely.” She turned his hand over in hers, “You’re a bit of a posh idiot, absolutely no manners at all, and no filter. One of the smartest men in London, a perfect target. But you’re still here and the people who tried to ruin you…aren’t.”

“Sherlock!” The senior detective came up to them, “Christ, you bloody moron! Don’t run off like that, alright? I can’t keep track of you like I used to!”

“I’m sorry, Lestrade. But we got you your man.”

“Yeah, you did. Thanks for that.”

“Well.” Holmes made a face and looked at Hannah, “Watson did.”

“You’re Watson?” He turned to her, something flashed across his face so quick she nearly missed it. This was the husband. She remembered him saying that Sherlock was his brother-in-law, which made him Mycroft’s husband.

“Gregory Lestrade, allow me to introduce Hannah Watson. Watson, this is Lestrade. He is a Detective Chief Inspector with The Met, one of their best and certainly their smartest.”

“But not much to be said about the rest of his division?”

“Not much to be said about the rest of his division.”

“Oh my god. You’re Hannah Watson!” And there was that moment of recognition. “Jesus Christ, I never thought I’d get to meet you! Thank you, Captain! Thank you so much, for everything!”

“You’re welcome, Inspector.” She knew what he was thanking her for.

“My God, you look so much like your pictures it’s…eerie. I mean, you’re supposed to, I know, but…I should have known you back on Commercial Street. You look just the same.”

“I don’t look at all like I used to.”

“Of course you do! Maybe not in uniform, Captain, but you have that air to you, that look. Same stance, same bearing.”

“You’re being very kind, Inspector.” Hannah felt a troubling twinge in her shoulder, “But thank you for the kindness.”

“You don’t need an ambulance after all, do you?”

“No, no. I don’t. This is just…”

“The run stressed your knee, and that spectacular take-down stressed your shoulder. And the tumble earlier was no good to you, either.” Holmes frowned, “Still hasn’t quite healed, has it?”

“Bad weather and excessive physical activity will always make it worse.” She rubbed her shoulder, regretting her silly decision to run a little over half a mile, “Today was a day of both things in surplus and it’s not even eleven.”

“I’ll get your statements later if you don’t mind coming down to the station tomorrow?” Lestrade looked from Holmes to Hannah, seeming to understand an unspoken signal she wasn’t sure if she had given or Holmes had. Or if they both had? Possibly.

“Sure. I don’t have anything else on tomorrow.”

“Great. Thanks for your help, you two. And thanks for this, and everything else, Captain.” Lestrade took her hand again, “It’s really, really great to finally meet you properly.”

“Of course, Inspector.” She shook hands with Lestrade, suspecting this was not the last time she would see him, or in this capacity. Once the police had cleared out of the area, Hannah looked around.

“Where are we?”

“Brick Lane is in that direction.” Holmes pointed west, “Can you manage a short walk?”

“Should be able to. If I had a half an idea what the hell had happened to my cane, I’d be much happier.”

“You must have lost it in the excitement after I pulled you out of the street. I’m very sorry about that.”

“It’s alright, I can replace it. Easier to replace things than people, anyway.” She sighed and followed him around to Brick Lane where a black government car waited at the kerb, idling and intimidating. Hannah sighed and looked at Holmes.

“You didn’t call him, did you?”

“I never said anything. I told you, he saw everything happen, he knows where we are.” Sherlock held the door for her, “After you, Captain.”

“Ta.” She ducked and slid into the warm, dry interior, “Much nicer than a cab. Where are we going?”

“Back to mine.” Holmes sat next to her on the bench and pressed a button on the armrest once they were on their way, “Baker Street, Charles, if you don’t mind.”

“Of course, Mr Holmes. Busy morning, I take it?”

“A bit, yes. If he asks, you can tell Mycroft everything.”

“Of course, sir.” The driver touched his cap and it was quiet for the rest of the drive.

-&-

Thirty minutes later, the car slowed to a stop and Sherlock got out. The driver held the door for them and gave Hannah a hand out.

“Ma’am.”

“Thank you.” She stood on the pavement and looked up at the house. She had never been here, but it felt a bit like she thought a home ought to.

“Captain.” Holmes stood by the door, waiting for her, so she shuffled into the house. He locked up behind her once she was in and shouted for someone as he went through the foyer and up a set of stairs. “Mrs Hudson! Company!”

“A client, dear?”

“Not this time. Tea?”

“In a moment, Sherlock. In a moment.” A woman poked her head out of a doorway and watched them, “Who is it?”

“A friend of my brother’s.”

“Oh, lovely!” Then she was gone again.

“Who was that?” Hannah asked as she made her slow, painful way up the stairs.

“That’s Mrs Hudson, my landlady. She keeps this house for me.”

“She seems very kind.”

“She is very kind. And exceptionally patient. She should like you just fine.” Holmes helped her up the last of seventeen steps and ushered her into a rather chaotic-looking flat. There was stuff everywhere, stacks of books and papers, odd memorabilia scattered around. Filing boxes full of manila folders were stacked with lids askew, a glass case displayed a collection of pinned butterflies and a taxidermied bat alongside an in-tact human skull on the mantle. By the windows overlooking the street was a work-table cluttered with more papers and a laptop. There was a music-stand with a few sheets of what looked like hand-written music on it, and on the table beside it was a violin. Behind her was the kitchen, which was just as cluttered as the rest of the place, the table being used as a chemistry bench if the array of graduated cylinders, Petri dishes, and test-tubes was any sign of it, nevermind the official-looking microscope.

She sat down in a faded red armchair and groaned as her body objected to the unwanted exercise.

“Here.” A hand on her shoulder was her unwitting host, “Here, take this. You’ll feel much better.”

“Take what?”

“Head back, and open. Trust me.” He had a medicine dropper in one hand, something inside.

“What is it? Codeine?” She had to be careful with narcotics, certain types knocked her right over on her ass and she was known to sleep almost twelve hours in a go. He touched her jaw and she let him give her whatever it was. The taste was, of course, awful. He gave her water next.

“No, that’s something a bit stronger.” He moved around her and went to start a fire in the hearth to warm the room a bit more. “You may feel a bit lucid and drowsy, don’t be afraid to fall asleep.”

“Roger that.” So, something better than Codeine. She went over a list of every pain-killer and pain-reliever she knew of that came in liquid suspension and raised an eyebrow.

“Did you just give me Roxanol?”

“Mhm.”

“I’m moving to the couch, in that case.” She got up and shuffled to the couch, sitting down again and feeling that fuzzy, loopy sensation. “Stuff acts fast on me.”

“That’s alright. I’ll be here.” Holmes finished what he was doing and she slid sideways on the couch, curling up. It didn’t take long for the Roxanol to kick in and she drifted off to the sound of quiet violin music. That original piece she’d seen earlier? Perhaps. A blanket was put down to keep her warm, which was very kind of him, and Hannah slept undisturbed.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For streamlining, I've tagged everyone with the actor's RP birthdates, making a couple of modifications where necessary. Therefore Hannah Watson's birthday is 1 April 1971 (yep, she's an April Fool's baby); Sherlock Holmes's birthday is 19 July 1976 (which, by no coincidence, happens to be Benedict Cumberbatch's birthday. So sue me.); and Mycroft Holmes was born 11 December 1966 (Mark Gatiss's DOB is 17 October 1966, but canon/fanon puts Mycroft's birthday on 11 December 1973. I combined the day/month of Mycroft's birthday with Mark Gatiss's birth-month. Works for me.); and dear Lestrade sits pretty at 3 August 1963 (canon/fanon says DOB: 3 August 1970, and Rupert Graves's DOB is 30 June 1963. See what I did with Mycroft's DOB for this story, same concept with Lestrade. He's the old man of the group.)


	2. Baker Street

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock opens his home to Hannah and contemplates a future that doesn't preclude being alone anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We meet a couple of familiar faces and a new one. Sherlock isn't a heartless machine anymore, and Hannah Watson might be a weakness.

* * *

As Hannah Watson slept on his couch, Sherlock Holmes went about his usual business. He had been following Watson for almost a year, had interacted with her several times, but never had a chance to properly introduce himself to her. He doubted she remembered him, anyway, their last proper encounter had been several years ago and very brief. But then, when she had taken down a suspect for him, she had mentioned taking care of Mycroft in Afghanistan, finding the picture in his brother’s pocket. She did remember, and rather well. This was the least he could do to repay her for everything. Mrs Hudson came up with tea and just cooed sadly when he explained Hannah’s predicament to her.

“Well, if she needs a place to lay her head, she can come here. I’ll go get that upstairs room cleaned up.”

“Thank you, Mrs Hudson.”

“That girl deserves more than a dry, clean room, you know.”

“I know, Mrs Hudson.” He let his landlady go upstairs and as soon as the upstairs bedroom was ready, which didn’t take very long, he carried Hannah upstairs and put her to bed properly, removing her shoes and jumper before he tucked her in, even going as far as removing her trousers so she slept in pants and vest. He found a charger for her phone and plugged it in at the bedside, setting a glass of water and some soda-crackers next to it for when she woke up again. He had given her the smallest prescribed dose of Roxanol, knowing it would take her down quickly, but she needed the rest and the relief. Sure she would sleep until the drug wore off, which would be anywhere between six and twelve hours, he left her alone and went back downstairs. He was not surprised to find his brother in the sitting-room, looking rather tired and quite concerned.

“Sherlock.”

“Mycroft.”

“Where is she?”

“Upstairs. She was not injured beyond what she came home with, brother, don’t worry yourself. She should be able to sleep it off.”

“Thank you, Sherlock.”

“For what?”

“Bringing her to Baker Street.” His brother shook his head grimly, “I have arranged for her things to be moved if she agrees to living here, which I suspect she will as she is in dire need of a better flat.”

“She lost something while she was chasing down my suspect, but I can replace it with something far better.” He thought of the cane she had lost, and how her limp was nearly completely psychosomatic. It would take some time to get rid of the limp, if she would let him.

“She ran half a mile at a sprint this morning, it was only in the aftermath that she realized she had lost it.”

“I found and recovered her cane for her.”

“She will be very grateful, it was clear she was suffering.” Sherlock took the offered item, “I had to dose her with Roxanol.”

“That was a risky gamble, Sherlock.”

“A risk I was willing to take.” He sat down in his chair, setting Hannah’s cane by the side-table as his brother went into the kitchen and fixed tea. “She has a history of black-out episodes after taking morphine drugs, I will happily fill in any gaps in her memory when she wakes up.”

“You’ve changed, Sherlock.” Mycroft came out minutes later with two cups of tea and handed him one before taking the red armchair for himself.

“You have, too.” Sherlock twirled a biro between his fingers, realizing belatedly it belonged to Hannah. Where had he gotten it from? Her bag, perhaps?

“Is that hers?”

“I believe it is. I haven’t a clue how I got it.” He shrugged. It was quiet for a while as they spoke of other matters. Setting his cup aside when it was empty, he got to his feet.

“If we need something of you, brother, I guarantee you will know before we come to you for aid.”

“Of course. Be well, Sherlock.” Mycroft got to his feet, brolly in hand, smoothing his overcoat with one hand, “You and Captain Watson both.”

“And you, brother. Goodbye, Mycroft.” He saw his brother to the street and waited until the black car was out of sight to go back inside. Out of instinct, he looked up to the cameras he knew were placed on Baker Street, one under the eaves of Speedy’s, another under the eaves directly across the street, and a third on the light-post. Those cameras were there for his protection, and now for Hannah Watson’s. Going back into the house, he locked the door behind him, touching the butt of the pistol tucked into a concealed-carry holster in the back waistband of his trousers for reassurance. He knew of the SIG Sauer L105A1 Watson carried in her waistband for similar protection. But unlike his, hers was not permitted or registered. She had simply retained it after her discharge from the Army and no one had bothered to reclaim it. He suspected that had something to do with his brother’s interfering ways, so perhaps it was permitted if not registered. He personally preferred a custom-built Browning L9A1.

Going up to the flat, he closed the door but did not lock it and cleaned up a bit. He reorganized several stacks of paperwork, disposing of two bags of shredded material, did the wash-up in the kitchen, and cleared out the fridge of the worst of expired goods. After some house-keeping to make the place a bit more liveable and appealing, he grabbed his mobile and wallet and shrugged into his coat as he went down the stairs after leaving a note for Hannah on the bed-side table and a text to her phone just in case she woke up for some reason while he was out.

“Going out, Mrs Hudson!” He called as he opened the door.

“Now where are you going?”

“Needing a few things for the flat, won’t be out long. Might stop by Bart’s to visit Molly, she had some things for me to collect.”

“You know the rules, young man.” His landlady shook a finger at him and disappeared back into her flat as he went out. His first stop was to the Tesco Express down at Melcombe Street, and he took everything back to the flat, putting it away in the proper places before leaving again for Barts. He spent a few hours in Molly’s lab, working on a few experiments he was keeping there, asked after Molly and how she was getting on.

It had been a year since his sister had overturned everyone’s lives, but things had long since settled back into some semblance of a normal routine, and Molly had moved on with her life rather nicely. She had a steady girlfriend, a far cry from the questionable characters she had dated for some time, and Sherlock had met and approved of the woman. Annika Gabriel was one of Lestrade’s people, a sweet-natured sergeant with ambitions to work her way to the top, and currently worked in SO6 as an officer of Parliamentary and Diplomatic Protection, guarding 10 Downing Street as a member of the security staff assigned to the Prime Minister’s residence. There was a bit of hero-worship where Sherlock was concerned, but that was standard these days. But Molly and Sergeant Gabriel never treated him like a high-pedestal god-figure, he was very human to them and very fallible, but they respected him and enjoyed his work. Never mind that Sergeant Gabriel had an alarmingly dry sense of humour and a great wit, she was perfect for Molly. When Gabriel arrived while he was working on a time-sensitive experiment, which at one time in his life would have been very annoying to him, he checked his results and set things aside for a bit to talk to her.

“Sergeant Gabriel.”

“Mr Holmes.” She leaned against the bench, “Heard you were up to your usual stunts this morning over in Whitechapel. Got a civilian involved, did you?”

“She involved herself, I’m afraid. And I suspect she isn’t quite a civilian.” He grinned, knowing Gabriel was talking about Hannah Watson’s take-down, “You’ve spoken to Lestrade, then?”

“The whole department’s buzzing. There’s some water-cooler talk you might be losing your touch if a civilian got your mark down before you did.”

“For a wounded veteran, she moved rather nimbly, I’m afraid she was a bit more observant than I at a critical moment and I was forced to double-back after losing the suspect.”

“It’s a she?”

“Her name is Hannah Watson.”

“Ooh! The soldier!”

“The soldier.” Gabriel knew about the whole mess in Sulana, and the incident in Maiwand that had gotten Hannah sent home. And she knew about Serbia. 

“Oh, never mind then! Good for you, Holmes!” Gabriel grinned, “What’s she like?”

“As sharp as I remember, and in desperate need of a few basic comforts.”

“Poor thing. No family, then?”

“None she’ll talk to, that we’re aware of. She does have a sister, but their relationship is uncertain at best. I believe she has cousins as well, but that relationship is…unknown. I know nothing.”

“That’s unfortunate. Well, trust you to get her back on her feet, then. Be good to her, alright?”

“I doubt I could ever give her enough to repay her for all the things she’s done for us.” Sherlock turned back to his experiment to check on it. It was no secret that he and Mycroft had never really gotten along well, but the last few years had brought them much closer and made it very clear that his brother had been quite wrong all those years about emotional attachments: “Emotion is a weakness, Sherlock. All lives end. All hearts are broken.” Those words had almost ruined them both in different ways. But he had always possessed a few friends, a very small circle of more-than-acquaintances. And in spite of everything, one of those friends was now family. He had just finished recording the final results and was cleaning up the experiment when Molly came in with a small cooler in hand.

“Hi, Sherlock! Sorry I took so long!”

“No worry, Molly, you were rather busy. I kept myself occupied.”

“Oh, good. Here, this is for you.” She set the cooler down next to his computer, “There’s a few surprises for you, I got a very interesting autopsy that kept me and the deceased donated their body to science. I couldn’t think of anyone better to take the donations.”

“You’re a dear thing, Molly.” He smiled and kissed her on the cheek, “Thank you.”

“Whatever keeps that great mind of yours busy, Sherlock. Is Annie keeping you company?”

“She just arrived, very good company as always.” He collected his things and checked his phone for messages. “So, I will leave you, ladies.”

“Thanks for coming by, Sherlock. It was great to see you.” Molly hugged him, “Heard about your morning, you’ll have to fill me in over drinks some time.”

“If you insist.”

“Oh, as if you mind Pub Nights!” Gabriel scolded, “You’d better come to the next one, Holmes! I’ll buy the first round if you do.”

“Time and place, Gabriel, you know the rules.” He wagged a finger at Molly’s girlfriend, “I may have some company if that’s alright.”

“Of course it’s alright! Anyone is welcome to join us, the more the merrier!”

“Then we’ll be there.” He was thinking of Watson, and how she might benefit from a night in good company. If he wasn’t mistaken, the next Pub Night they had on schedule was a week from now, which was enough time for Watson to make up her mind about moving into Baker Street, and get her affairs otherwise settled. He would extend the invitation at the soonest, just as a lure to get her out of her little bedsit and into like-minded company. In his limited experience, soldiers and law-enforcement generally got on alright together. Taking the cooler and his notebook, he left Bart’s and returned to Baker Street. A small dinner of sandwiches and tea was enough to satisfy him and he spent the night working a series of low-key experiments and composing on his violin, having a care for his guest asleep upstairs and checking on her every two hours or so to see that she maintained her drug-induced sleep. He didn’t need additional dosages, she slept well on the one he’d given her. That was promising. She needed a break, so desperately.

* * *

 


	3. Partners In (Solving) Crime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock learns a bit more about Hannah, who's not quite what she seems. He likes what he sees, and wonders how to...help. There's a chapter of Hannah's history that he very MUCH does not like, but he will only intervene if she asks him to. She has so much potential, she just has to realise that those ugly little voices don't warrant the attention she gives them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hannah and Sherlock call each other "Holmes" and "Watson" as a matter of respect and, possibly, out of laziness. It's not that Sherlock can't be bothered to remember Hannah's first name, he just doesn't feel comfortable calling her "Hannah" all the time. So, "Holmes" and "Watson" it is!

* * *

Hannah Watson was no stranger to waking up from a morphine sleep, but it was very disorienting to find herself in a strange room. An unfortunate side-effect of taking Morphine in any form was memory lapses. They always happened, regardless of dosage or method of delivery. It never mattered when she slept, but she hated having almost no recall of what had happened prior to taking the drug. Wherever she was currently, it was warm and she was alone. Sitting up carefully, she swung her legs around and put her feet on the floor, or at least off the side of the bed, the frame was a bit high and her feet didn’t quite touch the floor. But that didn’t keep her from conducting a quick but thorough self-exam. She had not been touched or violated in her sleep, which was a relief. Where was she, then? And how had she gotten here? Someone had taken care of her, had undressed her down to pants and vest and put her to bed. The room itself was about the size of her bedsit, maybe a bit larger. The bed was a double, with clean, soft sheets of a higher quality than she was used to, a comforter in a blue duvet-cover, and a few quilts that looked handmade. Her clothes were folded on a chair nearby and a cup of tea sat on the bedside table next to a glass of water and a couple of homeopathics for inflammation.

On closer inspection, she discovered that her clothes had been laundered, every piece of it, including what she currently wore. What on earth? She took the homeopathics right away, drank all of the water, and picked up the tea, giving it a suspicious sniff. It seemed alright, fixed the way she took hers. Whoever was her unwitting host knew enough about her to know how she took her bloody tea? Right, then. Well, it was unlikely she was in any real danger, and she drank the tea. There was something just a bit off about it and she took a careful sip. No poison, but…protein powder? Interesting. After drinking the tea, Hannah found a water-closet at the end of the hall and made sure no one was around before taking the opportunity to answer the call of nature. Then, she returned to the well-maintained room and got dressed. Her watch, her phone, and a bedside alarm-clock told her it was nearly eight in the morning. Morning? She had lost almost a whole day to sleep. Roxanol was known to do that. She sat on the bed and pieced her missing hours together.

Yesterday had started as every day did when she had the energy and the drive to get out of bed in the morning, she had gone on her daily sojourn to Aldgate East Station but hadn’t ever gotten there. She remembered a close call with a speeding car on Commercial Street, which had somehow led to her running – no, sprinting – a little over half a mile in pursuit of a runaway suspect on the lam from The Met and tackling said suspect in an abandoned alleyway by a disused Tube station in Brick Lane, which had apparently surprised a couple of people who were involved. She remembered meeting Sherlock Holmes, and through him Greg Lestrade, and piecing together that Sherlock was the brother of Mycroft Holmes and that yesterday had not been the first time she had met the younger Holmes sibling. It had been the first time she’d properly met Greg Lestrade, but not Sherlock Holmes. Was she in Holmes’s flat? She seemed to recall going back to his after Lestrade had summarily dismissed the two of them from the scene of her remarkable take-down, which her body had punished her for but she had no regrets over.

 

An unusual sound got her attention and she looked to the door, which she had left propped open a bit. That was a violin, played rather well by her standards. Holmes owned a violin, and a rather nice one if she remembered right. She remembered snatches of a song intruding on her hazy somnolence before losing all awareness, but that was one of her few clear memories before going blank. Despite the Roxanol, which had done its job, she was still quite sore and knew she was going to need her cane, but she had lost it back at the start of this mad adventure. Or…wait a minute, there it was. It was leaning against the night-stand, how had she missed it before? Probably because she hadn’t been looking for it. Well, that was a fancy thing. How she hated the miserable piece of metal, but it was a sad necessity for her. Taking the stupid thing in hand, she got to her feet and made her slow, careful way downstairs. Peeking into the sitting-room, she was witness to a remarkable sight that seemed so strangely domestic and yet…so very normal. She had never set foot anywhere near this house, but it felt more like home than anywhere she’d been in the past year.

At the moment, Holmes was standing by the windows she recalled looked out over Baker Street, back to the room, the violin tucked under his chin and his head tilted to the instrument as he coaxed rather lovely music from the carefully-tended strings. She looked around and noticed how clean the room was. She seemed to remember it being rather messy and cluttered, rather well lived-in if she had to put a word on it. A bit of disorganized chaos that only made sense to the man who called this place home. There weren’t as many stacks of papers about, and it looked like some dusting had been done, too. What got her attention, though, was the red chair. Sitting innocuously on the side-table was a steaming cup of fresh tea and a plate of toast with jam. The toast was a little burnt, which explained the slightly acrid tang on the air, but it was the thought that counted. She chuckled, still trying to get her head on right and a bit adrift. That was all very normal after a dose of Roxanol. She sat down in the chair and watched him.

“You should eat that, for your own sake.”

“Oh. Okay.” She shrugged and picked up the plate, “I suppose I might be grateful you didn’t accidentally burn the flat down.”

“I nearly did once.”

“I’d say it’s hard to get toast wrong, but that would be a very sorry lie.” Hannah smiled and nibbled on the toast and sipped at the tea, fixed just the same way as the cup she’d found waiting for her upstairs. After a bit more play, Holmes scribbled on a sheet of music and set the violin down after loosening the strings.

“Anything on today, then?”

“Only a visit to The Met to give our statements to Lestrade on yesterday’s events. You do remember, don’t you?”

“Enough to give a decent statement.” She shrugged, “The lapses aren’t as bad if I sleep it off like I did. How long was I out?”

“Oh, I would give you a good thirty-two hours.”

“Oh damn.” Hannah raised an eyebrow, “The Roxanol must have worn off while I was asleep, but my body never kicked over into waking stages until morning.”

“Which means you’re still on a semi-regular sleep-schedule.”

“And that’s fine. At least I didn’t have any nightmares.” She looked around, “Well, I don’t know about you, but I’d like to get this business with The Met out of the way before it gets too late.”

“After you, then, Captain.” He helped her to her feet and led the way downstairs and out to the street, where he hailed a taxi like magic. It was a quiet ride from Baker Street to The Met, and when they got to The Met, he paid the fare and led the way to Lestrade’s office. She just followed his lead since she had never had any business with The Met before this that required her to visit in person. Hannah hadn’t really paid much attention yesterday, but this morning, she took notice of a tension in the place that struck her as odd. People gave Holmes strange looks, a few were outright hostile. She knew he wasn’t an angel to work with, but that didn’t quite warrant the hostility, did it?

-&-

When the cab dropped them off at The Met, Sherlock led Watson into the building, through the checkpoints, and up to the Homicide and Major Crimes offices. Unfortunately, he had to deal with Sally Donovan when he got there, and she always had something delightfully nasty to say to him. He was numb to most of it by now, but she always had some barb ready for him no matter if he had seen her just yesterday or two weeks ago. So when she got in his way, he braced himself for something potentially unpleasant.

“Oh, look who it is. Get bored, Holmes? Just couldn’t stay away, could you? We don’t have any work for you right now, so you don’t need to be here.”

“I’m here on business, Donovan, if you don’t mind. Is Lestrade in yet?”

“Yeah, up in his office. Heard about yesterday. Must be losing your touch, eh?” The dark-skinned DI smirked, “Bested by a civilian? Had to hurt your pride a bit, didn’t it?”

“My pride suffered a far lesser bruising than the woman who ended up stopping the suspect in one rather spectacular take-down. I’m sure you’ve heard all about it by now, yeah?”

“Whole division’s talking about it, whole department’s talking about it, Holmes. Been a while since someone else stole your thunder.” She grinned cat-like and mean, “What a blow to your ego.”

“I’m not a machine, I can’t predict everything at every moment, and the suspect made an unexpected diversion. My associate either saw or predicted the manoeuvre and cut after him before I had a chance to double back.” He noticed Watson’s body-language, she was not pleased with the way Donovan was talking to him. Interesting, but not unexpected given their history. “She has as much reason to want him in handcuffs as we did, seeing as he nearly got her killed yesterday.”

“Oh? You nearly got someone killed, then?”

“Not me, Donovan! The suspect pushed her into traffic and she would have been severely injured or even killed, but I pulled her to safety before going after the suspect. She came after us, I didn’t realize until I found her sitting on the suspect’s back.” He stepped around the woman, “Excuse us, please.”

“Wait, wait. Who’s this?” Donovan blocked Hannah’s way, “You must truly be desperate if you have a shadow, Holmes.”

“Ah. Hannah Watson, Sally Donovan.” He introduced the two and waited. After the take-down, after yesterday’s chaos and her thirty-three hours of downtime and recovery, Watson wasn’t likely to stand for any flak from Donovan, but she wouldn’t lay a physical blow in a police precinct. Hannah sized up Donovan, circling the woman. Coming back to face Donovan, who was a few inches taller due to the heeled shoes she wore for work, or whoever she was trying to woo this time with varying degrees of success, Watson raised an eyebrow, opened her mouth, and laid out the most beautifully devastating series of deductions about Donovan Sherlock had ever heard. As she finished, she stepped around Donovan with a dismissive flick of one hand.

“So, I don’t think you have a whole lot of room to be passing judgment on the likes of Sherlock Holmes, Donovan. Makes you a bit of a hypocrite, and nobody likes a hypocrite. So, in the future, for your sake, keep your mouth shut and spare yourself the embarrassment.” Then she was gone, leaving Donovan gaping like a fish out of water. Sherlock was floored. All his life he’d been too smart, too observant. It made his job fairly simple, nine times of ten, and he could read a whole crime-scene in ten minutes, five for a contained, uncontaminated scene. He had never thought for a minute that there might be someone else like him. There was little in Watson’s records to indicate above-average intelligence. Well…no, that was incorrect and an insult to the woman making her way towards his brother-in-law’s office. But that was for later, not right this minute. He filed it away carefully, along with the pang of hope that he’d finally found his equal, his intellectual match.

“Donovan.” He patted the stunned woman on the shoulder and went to steer Hannah in the right direction. It didn’t take long for the bullpen to erupt with the slighted inspector’s indignation.

“Oh, are you fucking kidding me! There’s two of them now? You can’t possibly be serious, the one is bad enough! No way we’ll put up with two!”

“Oh, what now, Donovan?” And there was Lestrade.

“You can’t do this to us! It’s not fair! We already put up with Holmes, we shouldn’t have to put up with his little pet, too!”

“Oh, I take it you met Doctor Watson, then? Sorry, Donovan. She’s one of Holmes’s people, my hands are tied.”

“No, they are not! You cannot let her onto our scenes, I won’t let you! You can’t!”

“No, you misunderstand.” And here it comes. “She’s not one of Sherlock’s people, Donovan, she’s one of my husband’s people. My hands. Are tied. Muscle up, buttercup, there’s room enough in the sandbox for everybody. Play nice with the other kids.”

“Oh, you have got to be off your rocker! You can’t be serious?”

“I am very serious, Donovan. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a case I’m on and I need to speak to the witnesses and the victim. Back to work.” It didn’t take long for Lestrade to appear in the doorway of his office. “Making friends and influencing people, Watson?”

“I can give as good as I get, sir.”

“Obviously. Nice job with Donovan, but mind your step.”

“I can handle it. I’m not an employee of The Met, I doubt I’ll be getting pay for any work I do, so she has no jurisdiction over me.”

“You’ll be an interesting addition to the team.” Lestrade sat down at his desk, “So, our fleet-footed assailant, one Mr Skip Billings, won’t talk. Asked for a barrister and refused to answer questions.”

“I figured he might.” Sherlock sighed, “Well, we have enough to charge him with premeditated murder, never mind the assault and endangerment charges he racked up yesterday. He won’t be seeing the streets of London again for quite a while.”

“Ever.” Lestrade passed over the paperwork, “Mycroft was not a happy man when he got home yesterday. I can’t remember the last time I saw him so…angry.”

“He’s rather good at hiding it, isn’t he?”

“Not yesterday.”

“Not yesterday.” Sherlock looked at Watson, who frowned.

“What now?”

“My brother seems to have involved himself in the matter of seeing the suspect you were quick enough to bring to ground for us yesterday put away for the rest of his short, miserable life.”

“Why?”

“Because you were involved. Imminent mortal peril on your behalf seems to be a very quick way to my brother’s displeasure.”

“That was two bloody years ago! Christ.”

“Three.”

“Fine, three years ago. Just don’t let him give me the keys to the city.” Watson made a face, “I’m not a hero. I’m a soldier, I was doing my duty, I was following orders. It’s just that simple.”

“When you carried my brother four miles to Sulana, that was not in line with your orders. You did that on your own.”

“Fine, fine, I followed my heart instead of my head.” She twirled her pencil, “I don’t regret what I did at Sulana, and I will never regret what I did in Serbia. Ever.”

“Good.” He smiled and went back to his report. Watson filled out two reports and apologised if they were a little disjointed, her exact recall of events and details was a bit muddled because of the Roxanol.

“God, don’t apologise, Captain! Please don’t, this is still a better, more detailed report than I get from some of my sergeants and constables.” Lestrade flipped through her paperwork, “This is fine.”

“Do you need anything else, Lestrade?”

”Nope, you two can scram. I’ll call you if something really interesting comes across my desk.”

“Thank you.” He shrugged into his coat and handed Watson her cane, “Come along, Watson.”

“Right behind, Holmes, give me a minute.” She struggled a bit to get into her coat and Lestrade came around the desk to help her, seeing as her shoulder had gone stiff and was still giving her trouble. Never mind her knee giving its share.

“There you are, Captain.”

“Oh, ta, Inspector.”

“My pleasure. See you around, then?”

“Knowing my luck, probably sooner than later.” Watson smiled and shook hands with Lestrade, “Good luck, Inspector.”

“You, too.” He smiled and saw them out, holding the door of the cab that pulled up for them. As the cab moved on, Sherlock looked at Watson.

“Where can I take you?”

“I don’t have anywhere particular to be.” Watson looked at her watch and frowned, “Well, I’m supposed to see my therapist this morning. I should go.”

“Where is your therapist’s office?”

“Over in Bloomsbury, The Child and Family Practice.” It was obvious she wasn’t looking forward to the appointment, and he knew it wasn’t the kind of help she wanted or needed. He gave the driver directions to Watson’s therapist’s office and as they drove from The Met to the clinic, he did his research and asked his brother to collect everything he could find on Watson’s therapist. Maybe it was time to find her a new therapist, someone who had more experience with returning veterans suffering from PTSD-like psychosis. Hannah Watson deserved respect and understanding, her civilian therapist, appointed by her care-team upon discharge to London from the military hospital in Epsom, had very little experience with Watson’s specific set of problems. When they reached the clinic, he paid the fare and walked her into the building.

“You didn’t have to come with me, you know.” She said quietly as he held the door for her when they got to the proper offices.

“I may go to Bart’s, if you wish to do this alone.” He had plenty of work to keep him occupied for the duration of Watson’s appointment.

“No, no, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just…not used to someone else caring.”

“I would like to know why you’re being seen by a civilian psychologist with little experience with veterans.”

“The Army couldn’t get me in with any of the therapists who look after returning veterans, everyone was booked out, so I just took whatever they could find for me. I should have fought harder.”

“After all you’ve done, settling for second best is the last thing you should do.” He frowned as she signed her name to the patient-log and gave her name to the secretary.

“Watson, to see Doctor Thompson.”

“Oh, yes! Here you are, Miss Watson.” Sherlock looked at Watson, who rolled her eyes. It was Captain Watson or Doctor Watson, never Miss Watson. Even he knew that.

“Just take a seat, Doctor Thompson will be right with you.” The secretary said with a too-sweet smile. “She’s running a bit behind this morning.”

“That’s fine.” It wasn’t fine, but Watson was too tired and too content to settle for less than to argue the point. They would wait fifteen minutes and if she didn’t reschedule, he would. They took a seat in the nearly-empty waiting-room. Sherlock sat down next to Watson, picking up a nearby paper to look for anything interesting.

“That’s two weeks old,” Watson said quietly.

“I know. There should be something regardless of its age.” He flipped through article after article, one caught his attention.

“That was solved last week.”

“It was?”

“Mhm. And the others you’re going to find were solved in the last month.” She found a more recent paper and flipped through it with a speed he usually reserved for doing this very thing, “I may be living in a room the size of your brother’s walk-in closet, but I’m not broke.” Sherlock was reading an article on something very interesting, it looked to be a case of blackmail backfired, they always did in some way and that was such fun to figure out later, when it suddenly occurred to him what Watson had said. He knew she was intelligent, far more so than anyone else he’d yet encountered. Watching her tear apart Sally Donovan at The Met had been so unexpected and so exhilarating he wanted to know if she could do something like that again if she had the opportunity.

“Watson?”

“Hmm?”

“Are you the anonymous source who keeps stealing my cases?”

“I’d say I’m sorry, but that would be lying.” She looked up from the papers and grinned, “Sorry.”

“I thought I was the only one who could do that!” Sherlock was amazed.

“Not so much, huh?” She shrugged. He couldn’t help a sly smile. If she was the one stealing his cases, he did not mind at all. He’d initially thought it was a wannabe armchair-hack detective who thought they knew better than the professionals, who wouldn’t know a blood-stain from a ketchup splatter, let alone how to read clues without seeing the evidence in person. But he knew better now, and he was not that disappointed.

“You hide your intelligence. You have since childhood. Why?”

“Why do you think?” She looked at him, gaze steady and open, “You know everything about me. Lay it out for me, from the beginning.” She was giving him permission to lay out her darkest secrets, those he knew of.

“Are you sure you want me to do that to you? I can be very blunt and very cruel.”

“Hit me with your best shot.”

“Very well.” He tucked his hands under his chin as he studied her from across the sitting area. Her clothes didn’t fit quite right, she had lost a bit of weight, perhaps too much, lacking motivation or direction after her discharge. The Army had been her way of life for so long she wasn’t sure how to go about living without it. But going back further, to the root of her concealed genius, was a childhood riddled with grief, abuse, and at least one attempt on her life before finding a way out through service in the Army. As a child, she had been very smart, intelligent even. Above and beyond anyone in her family. But as a young child, her genius had been nurtured and promoted. But then, when she had been about ten years old, tragedy struck the family. It was the first of many dark chapters in Hannah Watson’s life.

“Your father died.” Sherlock frowned, resting his lips against his knuckles, “Your father was killed while overseas. He was in the Army as a…mechanic. A tank mechanic.”

“Right.” There was a family history of military service. Her father had been part of The Troubles, part of the British military presence in Northern Ireland between 1968 and 2007. Watson herself had served in Northern Ireland during her own service, following her late honourable father’s footsteps. As a member of the Royal Army Medical Corps, she moved around quite a bit, going wherever there was greatest need of medics with training.

“You were ten.”

“Absolutely the worst day of my life up until that point.” Watson turned the page of the papers, “Mum was already settled with her next husband by the funeral.”

“Which happened a month after your father’s death in…Northern Ireland? Oh.” Feeling a pang of regret for the things she had lost, he kept going. He was kind about it, she had asked for his gift and he would be kind with it.

Following her father’s death in 1981, and her mother’s very rapid marriage to someone else, Watson had begun a downward spiral. To save herself and perhaps ward off some of her step-father’s ire, Robert Leland had been a cruel creature and had beaten his step-daughters for any small slight real or imagined, Watson had concealed her intelligence and played dumb. Quite literally. He had beaten their mother as well, but she wouldn’t leave him for any love or money, beholden to him for whatever twisted reasoning she had. Watson and her sister Harriet had suffered for years, often in silence, withstanding the worst sorts of abuse.

Watson’s grades had begun to suffer six months after her father’s funeral, her marks began to slide into the low registers and she barely made it out of primary school. In secondary school, her education continued to suffer and she would often arrive at school with bruising or some kind of injury. He would ask Mycroft for her medical records, as soon as he had a calm mind to do so. Robert Leland had beaten Watson for any reason he saw fit, and once her sister fled the home at the age of eighteen after a very violent and unpleasant coming out as a lesbian, she became his favourite punching bag. Desperate to defend herself, Watson had taken martial arts and learned how to fend off unwanted advances. In her teenage years, and quite possibly before then, she had suffered many humiliating nights tied up at her step-father’s mercy as he did whatever he pleased with her. At this revelation, which he did not speak out loud, Sherlock almost choked.

He could stand for many human atrocities, he could stand in a pool of blood without flinching and lay out the poor victim’s whole life, but when it came to crimes against women, children, and pets, that was where he drew a hard-limit line. Rape was among the most disgusting crimes and whenever they got a rape victim, The Met knew they could always, always count on Sherlock to see it to the bitter end and he would catch the fucker responsible if he had to. He had taken down many a suspect accused of rape after a weeks-long manhunt or days-long chase, always thrilled to put cuffs on the squirming, gasping sorry piece of shit under his knees and ensuring, in quiet ways, that the man responsible for such reprehensible acts never saw the light of day again. How many rapists were rotting in prison-cells without windows because of him? How many were little more than bits of decomposed flesh in wooden boxes or linen hammocks because of him? Or even piles of cremated ash? He had no remorse for taking his due from someone who thought there was no wrong in taking the choice of saying no from a woman or child. Or even from another man.

 

Her step-father’s cruelties had scarred Watson in so many ways, but she was stronger for it. Escaping her home at the age of sixteen through the Army Foundation College, she had plunged head-first into something that had given her a purpose for so long. Her service-record was long, decorated, and the sheer number of people she had saved was dizzying. He could understand how suddenly finding herself without her one stable home could be disorienting. He suspected there was a bit of fear as well, desperation.

“Watson?”

“Hmm?” She had her hands folded over her mouth, her eyes closed. He swore he saw tears on her eyelashes. These memories were painful. She had asked, he had delivered.

“Are you alright?”

“It’s so strange to hear someone else pull apart each layer of my life and lay it out for me, to look at those scars and memories from someone else’s point of view.” Her voice crackled, he marvelled at her strength to hold herself together, “I never thought someone would see through all of it and see…me.”

“It is my job to see what people don’t talk about. I apologize for making you sad.”

“No, it’s…not your fault. And I’m more angry than sad.” She opened her eyes and looked at him, her eyes possessing that bright dullness of tears, “I hate Robert Leland, with everything that makes me human. He made my life an absolute living hell, I lived in fear for six years, I dreaded every waking moment and I never slept. He fixed my door so that he could lock it but I could not.”

“Watson…”

“He swore to kill me if I ever said a word to anyone about the things he did to me, but I never said anything. I didn’t have to. My medical records are six volumes thick with hospital stays and A&E visits for everything you can imagine. But I begged the doctors not to tell the cops, he would only beat me harder. I thought he would kill me if the cops got involved.”

“You were twelve, Watson!”

“I know. I had no childhood.” She sniffled, “And I’m still…still not safe.”

“Robert Leland is still alive?”

 “I don’t know. I…I don’t know.” And this clearly bothered her. This was why, in the year since she had settled in London, Watson had avoided venturing out much beyond her routine and avoided strangers, crowded places, and certain types of men. She was still afraid of her step-father and the power he wielded.

“Watson, I am so sorry. No one should ever have to suffer like that, no one.” Sherlock reached across and took her hands in his. “But a sorry rings hollow to a survivor, a…victim, like you, I don’t know what to say.”

“I’ve been to counselling and group-therapy for some of the things that happened to me as a child. It’s always hard to talk about it.”

“There is no statute of limitations on rape.” He squeezed her hand gently, “I’m sure we can do something. You were by no means his last victim, I guarantee he terrorized other girls.”

“It’s not worth it, Holmes. He could be dead for all we know.”

“Perhaps he is, or perhaps not.” He leaned across towards his potential flatmate, “I make a living on the wrongdoings of others, Hannah Watson, but there is one that I simply will not abide. If I can make things right for one victim, I can make things right for many. You have no reason to live in fear, not thirty-five years on. You have come so far since then, accomplished so much, you should be proud of yourself. You should hold your head high and challenge those who think of you as less than.”

“I can’t, Holmes.”

“Yes, you can. I’ll help you. Whatever I can do for you, whatever you need of me, I will make myself available to you for whatever needs you have.”

“So much for the cold-hearted consulting detective.”

“That was a very different time of my life, nearly a different person.” He sighed, “Watson, I am unable to help myself most days, but I can certainly help you.”

“What are you suggesting we do about this?” Watson looked at him, just as helpless as he was and that hurt. He took a deep breath and braced himself for a violent rejection.

“Move in with me, come live at Baker Street.”

“Sorry?”

“You need a new place to live, I could use a flat-mate. I’ve needed one for years, but no one has ever lasted beyond a week or two, even those who claim to be fans and not easily chased off.”

“Y-are you asking me to move in with you?”

“Yes, I am.”

“Why?”

“Because it would be a mutually beneficial arrangement for both of us, and I need a partner.”

“We’re partners?”

“We could be.” He folded his hands between his knees and looked at the carpet between his shoes, “I don’t need an answer now, take your time and think about it. Give me your answer in a week.”

“A week.” She had her eyes closed, “A week to…this is huge.”

“I know. But you…there is something about you that’s different, and I need time to discover what it is. You are no stranger to me, Watson. This is new territory to propose living together, but we are not strangers to each other, you know as much about me as I know about you.”

“You mean it.”

“Absolutely.”

“Wouldn’t we be too much alike? Too similar?” She tapped her fingertips together, keeping one eye out for her therapist, who was nearly twenty minutes behind by now.

“Not so similar as to be incompatible. You are by far the smartest person I’ve met who isn’t related to me in some fashion.” He heard a door open somewhere, “Think on it, and give me your answer when you are ready.”

“Will you stay here, or are you off to Bart’s?” She got up as her name was called.

“Would you like me to stay?”

“If you want to, I don’t mind the company.” Watson smiled down at him and leaned close as she passed by him, “Besides, you’re far better company than Doctor Thompson.” Sherlock glanced over his shoulder to get a look at the woman who knew next to nothing about how to handle Hannah Watson and raised an eyebrow.

“I will stay here. When you are done, we’ll find breakfast somewhere.”

 “Are you hungry?”

“Yes. Aren’t you?”

“I…suppose. I haven’t eaten in nearly two weeks, a side-effect of the psychosis.”

“Two weeks?”

“Don’t look so surprised, it’s not like you’ve got much room to talk.” She rolled her eyes and patted him on the shoulder, “Hang out, I’ll be an hour.”

“I will be here.” He watched her leave and as soon as she was out of sight, he got up, collected his coat, and left the office. Sherlock stopped once he was on the street and placed a call to his brother.

_“What do you have for me, Mycroft?”_

_“I have compiled everything I could find on Ella Thompson, and I have requisitioned our dear Captain’s records as well. Are you available?”_

_“I can be. Are you at The Diogenes?”_

_“Yes.”_

_“I’m on my way over.”_ He waved down a taxi and gave the driver the address to his brother’s exclusive club. Ten minutes later, he paid the fare and entered the club. He signed his name to the log, informed the steward that he was in to visit Mycroft Holmes on business, and stepped into his brother’s private office five minutes later. He nodded to his brother, who was not looking at him.

“Your files, Sherlock.”

“Thank you.” He picked up the stack of files, put them in a briefcase his brother had on hand for such moments as these. Slinging the strap across his chest, he nodded to his brother and left as quietly as he had come.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Has she given you an answer?” Mycroft finally looked up. He shook his head.

“I have given her a week to make her choice.” He looked at the clock and knew he had enough time to get back to the clinic before Watson was done with her appointment. “You know where to find us.”

“Very well, brother.” Mycroft made a quick, dismissive gesture and Sherlock let himself out. Walking away from the club, he made his way to Charing Cross Underground Station and caught the train back to Bloomsbury. Returning to the clinic, he reclaimed his seat, ignoring the puzzled looks the secretaries gave him. Sitting down, he tucked the work-bag between his feet and read the papers.

 

Fifteen minutes later, the door opened and he looked up to see Watson come out by herself. It hadn’t been an hour, but she was leaving. Getting up, he watched her.

“Watson?”

“That was probably forty-five minutes I’ve wasted.” She went to the desk to settle her bill. He picked up the bag and joined her.

“Are you alright?”

“Not here.” She whispered, looking at him as she handed over her card. He understood the unspoken. She wasn’t going to be coming back to this clinic again. As they stepped out onto the street, Watson bundled up against the weather. It had been overcast when they had left Baker Street, now it was raining.

“That’s just great. Fitting weather to match the mood.” Watson looked up at the rain as she turned up the collar of her coat. Sherlock flagged down a taxi and held the door for her.

“After you.”

“Ta.” She ducked into the cab and he followed.

“Where to?”

“Speedy’s on Baker Street, please.”

“Yes, sir.” The cabbie nodded and pulled into traffic when the way was clear. “Some weather this morning, yeah? You weren’t out in it, were you?”

“No, we weren’t. Not for long.” Watson looked out the window, “There was a time in my life not long ago where I would have given my kidneys for a bit of rain, and now I’ve got too much of it.”

“Afghanistan?”

“You know how dry it is over there.” She sighed, “Not that I miss that hole or anything.” He didn’t have anything to say about that and left her in peace until they got to Baker Street. He got out first and held the door for her, paid the fare, and hustled her across the wet pavement into Speedy’s, which had undergone renovations at the same time the flat had been rebuilt. After waiting through a short queue, they ordered and found a table. Two orders of egg, bacon, and chips (egg done over easy) with two extra orders of toast and mushrooms and two cups of black coffee were placed and they sat down at a small, empty table. A server brought the coffee and two glasses of water, bringing out their plates fifteen minutes later.

Sherlock watched Watson eat, unsurprised that she ate slowly and managed to clean her plate. That was common with soldiers suffering PTSD, they could go periods without eating anything and when they did eat again, they ate to compensate for the deficit. Some developed a binge-eating disorder. Disrupted sleep-patterns, night-terrors, and flash-backs at all hours were other symptoms. Aggressive tendencies, anger issues, and behavioural problems were also to be noted. He had seen a bit of the aggression yesterday and suspected under proper circumstances he would see it again in the future. After finishing their meal, they bundled up against the weather and stepped out onto the wet pavement. As Sherlock fished out his house-key and got the door open, he was distracted by a slight commotion behind him.

“Watson?”

“We have a problem.”

“Do we?” he looked over his shoulder. She had her back to the house and was looking across the street. Across the street a couple was arguing, it looked rather serious.

“Come on, you bastard, give me a reason to take your sorry arse to the pavement,” Watson whispered, clenching and unclenching her right hand. Sherlock got the door open and stepped into the house, quietly taking the cane from her knowing she wasn’t going to need it. Running up the stairs, he dropped off his bag and ran back downstairs so he wouldn’t miss any action. One foot out the door and all he could see was Watson’s back as she ran across the street. Shaking his head, he closed the door behind him and ran after her.

“Watson!”

“Hey, you! Stop!” She yelled, taking off after the man, “Holmes, look after her!”

“Where are you going?”

“I’ve got this!” She disappeared around the corner and Sherlock offered a hand to the woman sitting on the pavement.

“Are you alright, miss?”

“Please catch him! Please!”

“My partner’s already working on that. Do you need an ambulance?”

“Y-yes. Please.” The woman held onto him and Sherlock silently deduced her. With one arm around the victim, he retrieved his phone and called an ambulance. A few bystanders offered to watch the victim while he went to make sure Watson didn’t get into trouble. She was going to need hand-cuffs and didn’t have them. Sherlock, on the other hand, did have a pair. Taking off, he tracked Watson to Regent’s Park and called for police back-up along the way. When he arrived in the park, he found the pair being pulled from the duck-pond.

“Oh, Watson.” He tried not to laugh at the sight of his stocky companion drenched and absolutely furious. The perpetrator scrambled and made a bold break for freedom, but he didn’t get very far. Watson delivered a swift, painful kick to the back of the fleeing assailant’s knee and he collapsed with a howl. In a heartbeat, she was on top of him and holding him still. She had kicked him in the back of the knee to take him down and delivered a swift blow to his unprotected flank that laid him flat in agony.

“Don’t you move!” She snarled, “Hear me, you stay there! Don’t move or I’ll break your arm!”

“Having a bit of fun, Watson?”

“Please tell me you have hand-cuffs.” She looked up at him, “And a towel?”

“Back at Baker Street. That’s twice, you know.”

“Who’s counting?” She raised an eyebrow as he tossed her his hand-cuffs,

“Do I want to know where you got these?”

“Keep those, I have another pair at the flat.”

“You stole this from Lestrade, didn’t you?”

“Yes, I did. Not that he can’t replace them, of course.”

“You’re mean.” She grinned and slapped the cuffs around the assailant’s wrists and hauled him to a nearby bench, where she sat him down and kept him still by a pinch to his ribs that almost toppled him again when he tried to make another break for freedom despite the hand-cuffs and the obvious fact that Watson wasn’t playing around and could easily take him to ground if he made it far enough she was forced to give chase.

“You, sit. You’ll wait right here for The Met to come get you.” Watson snarled, blocking his retreat by standing in front of him, “Do that to any girl in London again and it won’t just be a jail-sentence you face. I have no reservations about pounding the slimy, entitled likes of you right into the dust for thinking you can treat a woman like property and have your way with her.”

Ten minutes later, the police arrived. As he’d expected, his brother-in-law was leading the charge. It probably had to do with him placing that call to dispatch for back-up to a scene on Baker Street, that was a very good way to ensure Lestrade’s involvement.

“Again? Really, Sherlock?”

“What can I say? She’s faster on her feet than she looks.” He just shrugged.

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock.” Lestrade shook his head and looked at Watson, who hadn’t moved at all from her post by the bench, “Stand down, Watson, we’ve got this handled.”

“Yes, sir.” Just like taking orders from a superior in the Army, he watched her fall into parade-rest, her posture relaxing and her muscles loosening from the tension of readiness to take after a runaway suspect. A couple of uniformed constables took the suspect into custody, wrapping him in a towel and a shock-blanket.

“What about the girl?” Sherlock remembered the victim he had left with good Samaritan bystanders.

“She’s been taken to University, we’ll question her after she’s been seen to by the docs.”

“Good.” He nodded, “I suspect she had been with him for some time before we came into the picture and took him into custody, so it may be prudent to search missing-persons reports over the past month or so and see if anyone matching the woman’s description was reported.”

“Right. Two steps ahead of us, as usual. I can’t wait to see what that bastard’s record looks like, he’s got something juicy in there for sure.” Lestrade shook his head as he flipped his notebook closed. “What were the chances someone like Hannah Watson would show up out of nowhere and just kind of…slot herself into place like this?”

“You know what we say about coincidence.”

“There is no such thing. But it’s something.” His brother-in-law looked over at Watson, who paced back and forth off to one side. “Think you can handle Hannah Watson?”

“It will be an adventure to try.” He smiled, “I think the question should be, can Hannah Watson handle me?”

“That is the million-dollar question, isn’t it?” Lestrade smirked, “Well, I’ve seen enough of the two of you for today, I’ll let you get back to Baker Street or wherever you need to go. See if you can get a statement from Watson for me.”

“She’d be happy to give you one.” Sherlock nodded, understanding very well that there was no reason for Watson to go back to The Met but that her statement was vital. He kept stacks of standard blank reports on hand at Baker Street for the times he had aided the Yard but didn’t want to go in or have a chance to go in for a formal interview. When they returned to Baker Street, a small overnight bag had been delivered from Watson’s bedsit with clean clothes and toiletries. Of course, Mycroft had seen the chase and knew of its aftermath. Sending Watson to take a shower, Sherlock collected the paperwork for her to write out her reports and statements for The Met, which would be returned when she completed them. She had Lestrade’s card, she knew the way to The Met and who to ask for when she got there. He had given her a choice and would wait as long as necessary to get her answer. He would take the time to read the files Mycroft had compiled on Watson and get caught up on her history. She was a particularly troubled individual, he wanted to know everything so he could better help her find a stable middle-ground, maybe offer her work to keep her busy. Lord knew he could use a partner, an assistant, someone to bounce ideas off of and aid him on his cases.

* * *

 

 


	4. So Much For Valentine's Day Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A turning-point comes to the relationship between Holmes and Watson, whether it's a good one or not remains to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Valentine's Day comes to Baker Street and finds the dynamic duo on the job. An undercover job. Changes are coming, and it may not be good.

* * *

After running down a suspect in Marylebone, Hannah Watson found herself back at 221B Baker Street. She took a shower after a quick swim in the Regent’s Park Boating Lake to bring the suspect to ground, and found herself at odds. Sherlock Holmes had offered her a place to live at Baker Street with him, something to do with her time and not-inconsiderable skills working cases at his side. She had already done that twice, and had enjoyed it. But she wasn’t sure, at the same time, if she was really ready to make that kind of move, that kind of commitment. He had given her a week to think on his offer and give her answer, she suspected she might just need that time. She thought back on her appointment that morning with Doctor Thompson and what a mild disaster that had been. She had asked Holmes to lay out everything he knew about her, to show his gift. And he had, going all the way back to her step-father’s abuse and how that had driven her to hide her natural intelligence.

She had spent years suppressing her greater intelligence in nearly all aspects of her life, having learned very quickly that behaving at an average level, being normal and nonthreatening, was the best way to avoid trouble. She had been bullied as a child for being smart, being different. She had turned her anger and frustration to a more useful venue with the Army and by going to med school to become a doctor so she could help others despite not being able to do much to help herself. That had been her life for so long, and she had been adrift without purpose or direction since discharge.

But Doctor Thompson had a very strange view of things and kept telling her to write a blog, it would help her connect to civilian life. But nothing ever happened to her, at least not until yesterday. Who wanted to read entries about PTSD nightmares, half-cocked suicide attempts, hours spent polishing her service-weapon and trying to talk herself into just pulling the damn trigger. Just once. Or the nights she drank herself into a stupor and couldn’t remember her own name in the morning. And then Doctor Thompson asked her if she liked what she had done yesterday after she admitted to helping The Met with an on-going case.

“Did you enjoy what you did yesterday?” Thompson had asked.

“Why is that important? I happened to notice something and acted on it.”

“You were almost killed and you went after the man who put you in harm’s way. Did you want to make him suffer for hurting you?”

“That’s not how I’m wired. The only man I want to see suffer is the man who spent years abusing me. I told you. Many times.” Finally fed up with trying to explain that she didn’t feel any anger towards Skip Billings, who wasn’t going to be much of a problem anymore and was unlikely to ever be able to hurt anyone else, Hannah had excused herself and walked out of the appointment. She needed a new therapist, someone with the right training. She needed a therapist trained to provide treatment to returned veterans suffering from PTSD symptoms.

Hannah wanted to stay at Baker Street, she liked the feel of the place and she liked Holmes. He was nice to her, and they did have a little history between them. And his landlady was very kind, and thrilled that Holmes might have made a friend. Hannah found Holmes in the sitting-room, reading the papers looking for more cases. There was a manila envelope on the side-table beside the red armchair next to a fresh cup of tea. It was still raining outside, she noticed. Great. Hearing her footsteps, he looked up as she came into the room and smiled.

“Feel any better?”

“Clean, warm.” She sat down and picked up the tea, “Do I want to know how you know the exact way I take my tea, Holmes?”  
“You know how I know.” That smile grew a bit and he nodded to the saucer, “Take that with the tea, you will feel much better.” Two Paracetamol tablets sat on the saucer, and she downed them with the tea.  
“What’s in the envelope?”

“A few things for today. Lestrade needs your statements from the take-down this morning.”

“Oh. Yeah, I can do that. Fill it out and get it back to him whenever?”

“When you have time.”

“Copy.” She flicked through the papers inside and picked up a half-sheet when it slid out of the stack, “Oh, what’s this?”

“That is something my brother arranged for you.” Holmes studied her over folded hands, two fingertips touched his lips, “You may find it very useful, that is our hope.”

“What is it?” She turned the paper over and read it. It was a referral slip to the Veteran’s Aid office in Westminster. Hannah’s heart jumped and she covered a muffled gasp, “Oh my god. Did Mycroft do this?”

“Yes, he did. I did not ask it of him.”

“I keep meaning to go there, to ask…for help there. But I can’t. I’m…”

“You need help, Watson. I can’t think of any organization better equipped to get you back on your feet.”

“Thank you.” She sniffled and pocketed the referral slip, “For this and everything.” Hannah wanted to cry. Trust someone like Mycroft Holmes to take initiative and arrange a formal referral to the needed resources. She needed counselling and employment assistance, but housing wasn’t a concern for her, not like it had been yesterday.

-&-

After a couple of hours in Baker Street, Hannah decided to get on her way. Thanking Holmes again for everything, and promising to be in touch and to think about his offer, she let him help her into the cab that he managed to materialize out of the rain. She waved as the cab pulled away, watching him run back into the house to get out of the rain.

“Where to, miss?”

“40 Buckingham Palace Road, please.” She sighed, deciding she might as well make a start on getting help. The driver nodded and she closed her eyes, not saying anything until she felt the car slow and come to a stop. As she got out, cursing the rain, she looked at the driver. “Do I owe you anything?”

“No, ma’am, you do not. Have a peaceful day, please.”

“Thanks. You, too.” She smiled at the driver, wondering who was footing the bill for this. Probably Mycroft Holmes, again. She entered the building that house the Veteran’s Affairs office, shaking rain out of her hair. She had her phone and her wallet, all she was missing was her service-pistol, which she usually carried tucked into a conceal-carry holster tucked into the back of her trousers. Holmes had taken it from her while she’d been in the shower, but hadn’t said anything about it and she hadn’t raised the issue. It was probably best if she didn’t have access to her weapon right now.

When she was asked her business, she gave them the referral slip and spent the rest of the day talking to a number of extremely helpful people. Her assigned therapists were very smart, one of them was a fellow veteran from the Middle East theatres and knew exactly what she had been through. She was given access to counselling for her PTSD and the low-scale addictions it had spawned, one of which was a problem going back to her teenage years. She had smoked and drank since sixteen, off and on over the years, and in university, a stint with recreational drugs. She had been through rehab twice on the Army’s dollar, when she was certain she should have been kicked to the kerb they had put her into intensive rehab and tossed her right into the deep end with probationary training when she got out. Desperate to do things right, she had buried herself in training, in the rules, regulations, and rigorous schedules of military life to keep her distracted.

When questioned regarding what kind of assistance she needed, she suggested that housing wasn’t an issue just at the moment, she would be in touch about that, but she could certainly use help in other areas, such as job-training and maybe finances. Her pension was all well and fine, but finances were very tight and most of her clothes were second-hand. It was the job-training she was most interested in, placement wasn’t as important considering she would probably end up working with Sherlock Holmes, but something to put her skills to use would be nice. She couldn’t work in the medical field with her shoulder, surgery was out of the question, and she didn’t have the mental or emotional stability to do clinical work. Maybe something in security would be good for her? Provisional training in field-medic skills, as an Emergency Medical Technician, would be good to keep her medical skills sharp, too.

Her care-team consisted of two mental health social workers, a barrister, three addiction councilors that she would see on a rotating basis, and two case workers. When she explained her current living situation to one of the case workers, the case worker asked where she was living.

“Er, Langmore House, down in Whitechapel.”

“Oh, no! No, no, no! We can do better than that! Do you have other arrangements in place already?”

“No, but I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Well, do your thinking in a safer house. Come on, I’ll show you.” The man smiled and grabbed a set of keys from a hook behind his desk, “New Belvedere House is perfect for you.” Hannah had seen New Belvedere House Hostel before, walked past it all the time and wished she had the means to stay there, it seemed like a very nice place. Taking her from Westminster to Stepney, Roger Malkin showed her the organization’s residential home. The rooms for offer were the size of the upstairs room at Baker Street, decorated in a similarly homey way, with hardwood floors, wide, double-glazed windows with nice curtains, walls painted in a warm, light yellow. A king bed took most of one wall, with two matching side-tables and reading-lamps. The bedding was neutral and clean.

“Oh, this is lovely.” She felt a pang of nostalgia for Baker Street, “The last place I stayed at, the room was just like this. The bed was smaller, but…this is nice.”

“Would you like to stay here until you’ve made up your mind?”

“He gave me a week to think it over, I figured I might need that time.” She chewed on her lower lip, trying to stay calm, “Can I stay here?”

“Of course you can, Captain. Now, and if you ever need a safe place to stay, you are welcome. New Belvedere House is home to those who need a place to shelter a while.”

“Perfect.” She sighed, “I suppose I should see about clearing out my bed-sit.”

“We can handle that.”

“I’ve heard that a lot the last two days.” She smirked, “I don’t suppose you might know a bloke by the name of Holmes, do you?”

“Yes, ma’am, I do. He called about your situation yesterday, said you were needing a bit of help getting back on your feet.”

“God bless Mycroft Holmes.” She rubbed her hands together, “His brother’s the one who offered me a place to live and a week to figure it out. I just need somewhere stable to live until I make up my bloody mind on things.”

“Here should about do, Captain Watson.”

“Thank you, Mr Malkin.”

“Roger, please. And, I think you might do with a new wardrobe.”

“You noticed.”

“Oh, I noticed.” Roger plucked at the sleeve of her worn jumper, “We can do better.”

“What’s your idea of “better”?”

“Trust me, dear.” He patted her on the hand and after arranging for her things to be moved from Langmore House to New Belvedere House, took her on an impromptu shopping trip. They were joined by another caseworker, a woman, who was thrilled to have a new client to go shopping for. Her only hard limit on clothes was no skirts. At all. Unless it was a gown, she would wear denims and trousers. Skirts were not her thing. Roger and the female caseworker, her name was Rebecca, just looked at each other and smirked.

An hour later, half of her wardrobe had been replaced and she had clothes that fit and actually flattered her figure.

“Oh, wow.” She looked at her reflection from behind, she was wearing a pair of well-fitted trousers with a grey button-down and a blue waistcoat. “Look at that!”

“We’ll work on getting you enrolled in job-training tomorrow, Captain.” Rebecca smiled at her, “That’s soon enough. You can get comfortable in your new rooms and have a good think about your opportunities with Mr Holmes’s brother.”

“That works for me.” Hannah sighed and smoothed one hand over the fabric of the waistcoat. It would be interesting to see where she found herself by the end of this coming week.

-&-

After moving from Langmore House to New Belvedere House and getting the kind of help she had needed for almost a year, Hannah Watson found herself so legitimately busy she almost completely forgot about her decision to stay in her current housing or move to Baker Street. She followed Holmes’s continuing work on the internet, offering her two-pence of opinion in the comment-threads on his blog if she noticed something in the break-down of the case he was covering. She sent him cases she thought might interest him and he did likewise, sending her tidbits of whatever The Met had him on. They met up twice to talk, but he never asked her about her impending decision and the end-date came and passed by without any change to routine.

It was two months before it came up again. She was actually in the middle of an active case with him and the very idea of moving anywhere was far from her immediate concentration. She sat in the doorway of an abandoned shop that had closed it’s doors to business months ago and was blacked out with old newspapers and graffiti. She sat right in the doorway, just out of the way of passers-by and almost invisible. For the purpose of her stake-out, she wore some of her oldest, most worn-out clothes and sat on a stack of blankets. To coax passers-by, and the target they were hunting, she had a small plastic container that had once held hummus. A sign painted on a piece of cardboard read “Homeless Veteran: Anything Helps. God Bless.” and sat propped against her leg. She had been on location for almost three days and made herself a promise that she would never, ever let it get so bad she ended up living on the streets again. She had been homeless for a few months upon returning to London and had hated every minute of it.

But now, as she sat with her head bowed and bundled in blankets and an old Army smock to ward off the bitter February wind, her face covered with a scarf Holmes had given her, she watched people pass her by. It was a study in human nature and socioeconomic status to see who actually paid attention to her and who stopped to drop something in her bowl. A young mother with twins had brought her lunch from a nearby cafe; a grandfather type had offered a couple of pounds, he had to pay for a train-ticket to Aberdeen, see, and couldn’t give up much more but wanted to give a little; a woman her mother’s age had stopped, looked at her set-up and made a disapproving sound, had scoffed: “Shouldn’t have sold your soul without knowing you’d have anything for ya at home. Pity they do the selfless thing and end up here. Go to the shelter, why don’t you?” That kind of treatment was rather common, but mostly she was ignored. A passing gentleman in clothes as nice as Mycroft Holmes’s had offered her a job running numbers for his firm as an auditor, said she looked like the sort of person who had a good head for numbers and a better head for reading people. From that brief encounter, she had gotten a business-card and almost a hundred quid. To “get yourself something nice”, a hot meal or a night in a hostel. Every cent she earned panhandling went right into savings and it was incredible how much she could make in a morning.

The Met had picked her target, Holmes had picked her stake-out, and she was watching for her suspect. A spotter sighted their target, one Mr Calston Groves, two blocks down from her post, and called it in. Right on cue, the rest of the team went into action. Holmes walked past her while talking on the phone with Lestrade, passing off a constant-update as a casual phone-call, and casually tossed her a couple of bills. She would give them back later. Hannah nodded her thanks and hunkered down, waiting for Groves. As he began to pass her, she nudged her cup and rattled the coins.

“Spare change for a homeless veteran, sir?” She asked in a gruff, hoarse voice that was part acting and part legitimate. Sleeping in the open on cold nights always made her hoarse and if she didn’t get a bloody cold from this mess, that would be fantastic. The rattling change got his attention and when he looked down at her, she knew this would work. She subtly pushed the button on the recording device hidden in her scarf and watched him. He looked at her sign, at her cup, and crouched on the pavement.

“Got no work, then? No family?” He asked the right questions, she gave the prearranged answers. No and no.

“I can give you work if you’re willing. It’s hard work, but good, honest work. You’ll have a warm bed, you’ll get fed, all you have to do is work when I need you.” Hannah leaned her head back and looked up at him. Groves ran a human-trafficking ring in London, targeting young women and homeless veterans down on their luck. Primarily women were targeted, but men had gone missing, too. He tipped her head back, “Let’s get a look at that face, hm? Oh, you’re a pretty one. Streets’ been bad to you, but you’ll clean up just pretty enough. Take this and find me tonight, come to that very address and ask for Vex.” He gave her a card and patted her on the cheek, if she’d been of the mind she would have bitten him. As it was she wanted to take him to pavement for touching her at all. She squinted at the card and muttered the code-phrase that would clear the rest of the team for the take-down.

/“Thank you.”/ She blinked, /“Time to go now.”/ He didn’t speak Gaelic, they knew this, and assumed she had simply thanked him. He smiled and shoved to his feet, confident that he had snagged another victim and no one was the wiser, completely ignorant of the squad of police all around the street. He bumped into Sherlock, who was strategically standing behind him, and set off the next sequence of events to ensure they got Groves into custody on proper charges. As the two faced off, she backed up to the door to be out of the way.

“Oh, sorry. Excuse me.” Holmes had been looking at his phone, intentionally distracted.

“Oi. Watch yourself, mate.” Groves snapped, turning on Holmes, “Pay attention, why don’t you?”

“I said I was sorry, sir.” Holmes remained calm. Hannah hid her face and listened. After some back-and-forth, Hannah heard the moment she had been waiting for. After Groves wouldn’t take Holmes’s apology, he recognized him and sneered, stooping to insulting the once-disgraced detective for losing his touch. Holmes fired off a couple of low-grade standard deductions, knowing he couldn’t go full-steam this once and not inspired to. Groves took a swing at him and that’s when things went live. Holmes dodged the blow and danced out of reach as two plain-clothes constables tackled Groves, taking him to the pavement and slapping him in cuffs, reading off a not-inconsiderable list of charges. Public disturbance, physical assault, resisting arrest were just a few. The bigger charges were soliciting, menacing, coercion, of homeless and underprivileged women and veterans. As Groves was hustled off, fighting and spitting, Hannah looked up at Holmes, who blocked her way.

“Are you okay?”

“I should be asking you that question. And I shouldn’t have asked you to do this at all, if I’d thought of it properly.”

“Holmes, we’ve both been like this before, it’s a terrible position to be in.” She dug into her pocket and produced the bills he’d tossed into her cup, “Here.”

“Keep it, please. That’s not charity, you need it more than I do, in every sense of the word.” He looked down at her, “How are you?”

“Every day is better. I like the house, it’s nice.” She sighed, “Working cases with you is keeping me pretty busy, too.”

“You’re good at it. Your job-training is going well, too, I hear.”

“Very well.” She grinned and took his hand, “Your brother was very helpful.”

“For once.” That smirk said it all. She chuckled and looked around him to see if the cars were gone. The place was swarming with police personnel and she caught sight of Lestrade talking to the Donovan about ten yards distant.

“What are you willing to bet Donovan’s going to have something to say about this?”

“She always does.” He rolled his eyes, “Come on, up you go. Baker Street for you.”

“Throw in a meal and a hot shower and I’m all yours.” She groaned as her knee objected to the change in position, “Ow.”

“I can fix that. Come along.”

“I’ll catch you two later! Get on home, and stay warm!” Lestrade called as they headed for the line of police-tape that shut off that part of the street.

“You know where to find us!”

“Take care, Watson, see you later!”

“Roger that.” She waved and ducked under the tape. It didn’t take long to get a cab and soon they were on their way back to Baker Street. She sighed and leaned against Holmes, who took her hand and turned it over in his, inspecting it closely, taking note of the state of her fingernails and the chapped, cracked skin. She had spent a week getting into character for her stint on the streets of London, and she was looking forward to a long, hot shower far more than she would have in other circumstances.

“Would I be wrong assuming you’re in need of a hair-cut?”

“Nope.” She scratched under the brim of the knit-cap she wore over her hair, “I needed one a while ago, but now I really need one.”

“Is it really that bad?” One eyebrow went up and she huffed.

“I’ll show you when we get to Baker Street, I’m not getting us kicked out of this cab and walking the rest of the way.” She shot a glance at the cabbie, who wouldn’t stop watching them. She was really just that convincing as a homeless veteran that he actually thought she was homeless. That was kind of depressing.

“What?” He had seen her expression change.

“Next time, you get to do this. I swore I’d never do it again after I got off the streets the first time.”

“Then how did we talk you into it this time?”

“Because it’s my people being targeted. You’re a good actor, Holmes, but you’re not that good. I was both a woman and a veteran and, as far as Mr Groves was concerned, homeless. Three for three.” She made a face and spent the rest of the ride wondering if it was time to finally swallow her pride and move into Baker Street.

-&-

When they got to Baker Street, she dug up her house-key and shouldered her two bags, letting herself into the house while Holmes paid the fare. He came right behind her, locking up as soon as he was in, and she went upstairs. Dumping her bags at the foot of the stairs going up to the room she kept when she stayed here, Hannah bee-lined for the bathroom. She shed her clothes in a pile outside the door and locked herself in, running the water as hot as she could stand it before stepping under the shower-head. Hannah scrubbed her skin until she was sure at least two layers had sloughed off. It was disgusting to watch the water turn black. She hadn’t legitimately showered in a week and needed one so bad it hurt. She washed her hair three times and groaned as clumps came off. Time to cut her hair. Thankfully, she could pull off some very short styles. After drying her hair, she pulled it into a messy bun and went downstairs in denims, vest, and a button-down, carrying her shoes and socks in one hand and her laptop under her arm. Sherlock was in the shower, so she put on her shoes and knocked.

“Holmes, I’m going out! I’ll be back in a few hours!”

“Be careful, Watson.”

“Always am.” She smiled and found her wallet and mobile, pocketed both, and debated taking her cane. But after spending all that time on the streets, she needed that extra assistance. She had a beanie she wore to cover her hair and she stepped out onto Baker Street as she zipped up her coat and tied on the scarf. She managed to hail a cab at the end of Baker Street and ordered the driver to Covent Garden. Her stylist was there, and she pulled up the website for Halo Salons London on her phone, making an appointment to see Victor. Once the appointment had been confirmed, she pocketed her phone. This wouldn’t be the first time she’d shown up last-minute. By the time the cab pulled up at New Row, it was raining.

“Oh, great.” She sighed and got out, handing the driver a few bills before she bolted across the pavement and wrestled the door open. It was warm and dry inside, thank Christ. Once inside, she shook rain off her coat.

“Victor!”

“Hannah Watson!”

“Hi, sweetie!” She grinned sheepishly at the thin dark-skinned man who appeared from the back,

“Sorry about this.”

“My God, you’re soaked! That was just crossing the pavement?”

“Yep.” She looked over her shoulder, “Thank Christ I was pulled from my stake-out before it started raining.” She took off her coat and handed it to Victor Trevor, who hung it on a coat-tree and hustled her back past the desk with a dismissive wave at the receptionist, who just threw Hannah a pitying glance in passing. Once she was seated, he looked over her shoulder at the mirror.

“Alright, you mad thing, what are we on for today?”

“Please don’t be mad at me, Victor.” She removed the beanie and the hair-elastic, “It’s bad.”

“What happened to you?”

“Two weeks on an undercover job. It’s been a week since I showered, I got one about an hour ago.”

“Oh, you mad thing. Mad, mad thing.” Victor inspected her hair, “What were you doing?”

“Laying a clever trap for a trafficker.” She sighed, “Sorry, Victor.”

“Oh, that’s alright, love. How short do I get to go?”

“Short as you want.” She looked at her messy-haired reflection, “Do your worst, Victor.”

“Ooh!” His face lit up. “Oh, can I?”

“Nothing too outrageous, I don’t want to give my flatmate a heart-attack.” She chuckled, knowing her getting her hair cut would throw Sherlock for a loop, especially since he hadn’t seen how bad it was before she’d skipped out while he was in the shower.

“Oh, you have a flatmate now?”

“Of sorts.” She chewed on her lip, “I don’t want to go Army short, that’s well behind me, but…short.”

“Oh, don’t you worry.” Victor got hold of her phone and snapped a quick picture for the “before” bit. She snickered.

“Who’s this flatmate of yours, then?”

“Sherlock Holmes? You’ve heard of him.”

“Yeh! That clever, handsome detective, works for The Met sometimes.” Victor grinned and hustled her up and over to the sinks to wash her hair again, “Awful easy on the eyes, isn’t he?”

“That’s one way to put things! What an attitude, though. Still, I love him.”

“You and me alike, hun.” Victor smiled, “You and me both. Used to know your handsome fellow long time ago. Back in uni.”

“You knew Sherlock Holmes? I thought he didn’t have any friends.” She kept her eyes closed, he gave her a hand-towel to cover her eyes, “What was he like?”

“Young, reckless, far too smart, and the most handsome thing I ever saw. We went our different ways, as all people do, but he was a part of my life for a while.”

“Lucky.” She muttered, glad that Sherlock had at least one other friend in his life, even if he didn’t talk to them anymore. Once Victor was content with the clean state of Hannah’s messy hair, it was right back to the chair and he picked up a comb and trimming scissors.

“So, m’love, how are we doing this thing?”

“Er. Shoulder-length and go from there? Easier to go shorter. Can’t really get length back.” She grimaced, “Do your worst, Victor.”

“Well, if you’re mixed up with Sherlock Holmes, you should look your sharpest. I will make you look magnificent.” He brushed out her hair, dried it, and tied it back just above shoulder-length before cutting at the tie-off. That lost her almost four inches of hair.

“Whoa! My God, that’s a lot of hair!” She gaped at the tail, “Victor!”

“You took very good care of your hair…until now.”

“Sorry!” She blushed, “Alright, work your magic!”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned and wielded a comb and trimming-scissors like a pro. But before he did anything, she saw a glimmer in his eyes.

“What now?”

“You have such pretty hair, such a beautiful colour.” He ran his fingers through Hannah’s hair, a mixed blonde-grey that was more grey than blonde, “It’s so attractive, especially on you.”

“That’s not beauty, Victor, that’s stress and age catching up with me.” She rolled her eyes. She was forty-five years old, single, with more baggage than most people owned pairs of shoes, and a mean temper when provoked. As several of London’s criminal-class had learned the hard way over the last two months. Victor chuckled and told her to close her eyes. He gave her a polished pixie cut with bangs that married feminine details and classic men’s tailoring. The barbered edges gave it a surprisingly feminine touch when blended into a very pretty, sophisticated side sweep that was so very simple.

“Oh, wow.” Hannah blinked when he told her to look. “Damn, Victor! You outdid yourself!”

“Like it?”

“I love it! It’s perfect!” She messed with the short strands, playing with the way they fell. “This is fantastic!” Victor chuckled and held up a print-out of the “before” picture. He had sent it to himself and printed it out.

“See?”

“Ugh. I made three people swear backwards over their graves that I wouldn’t have to pull another undercover job like that.” Hannah sighed, “At least, not a job that has me on the streets as a member of the homeless community.” They took a picture of the “after” results, and she insisted on a selfie with Victor.

“You be good to yourself, Hannah. Hear me?” Victor scolded as they settled the bill at the desk.

“I’ll do my best, Victor. I’m keeping pretty busy these days, no time for feeling sorry for myself.” She handed over her card and a cash tip for him, “I’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

“Of course you will.” He rolled his eyes.

“Oh, Hannah!” One of the other stylists made a sound, having come up to the desk while she was settling her bill and gotten a look at Hannah’s slightly-worn out appearance. “What did you do to your hands?”

“That’s a two weeks on the streets of London, Mal.”

“Nope, no. No. You’re not leaving. Finish up with Vic and you’re coming with me. Jesus, you idiot, can’t even take care of yourself!”

“I was working, Mal.” She shook her head, “You’ve seen me worse.”

“Not in a year we haven’t! Nope!” The stylist shook her head briskly, “You’re coming with me right now! Come on!”

“Alright, alright, take it easy.” Hannah rolled her eyes as Mallory Vincent grabbed her by the hand and hauled her back towards the stations for manicures and pedicures. Victor just laughed at the look she tossed over her shoulder. A quick check of her phone proved that Holmes hadn’t come looking for her, so she hadn’t been missed yet.

“Take your boots off and sit. We’re doing this properly.” Mallory said, pointing to the station in question. Hannah shook her head and sat down to take off her boots.

“That’s what I get for trying to sneak out past you, Mal.” She swung her feet as her stylist bustled around collecting what she needed for the job.

“Don’t do that again, alright?”

“Alright, I won’t.” She smiled, “But boy is my flatmate in for a surprise when I finally get home.”

“You’re moving out of New Belvedere House?”

“No. Not yet. But the house I stay at when I’m not at the hostel.”

“Oh, right. You’ve got two places you stay at.” Mallory made a face, “You let Vic have fun, do I get to have fun?”

“Nothing outrageous.”

“Oh, you know me! I know the rules.” Mallory grinned and went skipping off to the wall-display of nail polish. Hannah giggled when she saw Mallory coming back with four bottles. She took a sharp breath as Mallory wagged the selected colours at her.

“Ooh, Mal.”

“Promised, didn’t I?”

“Clever thing.” She smirked, “That’ll do! But first…Hey, Victor!”

“Yes?”

“Turn around real quick!” She opened her camera app, “Smile!” She snapped a quick shot of Victor smiling at the camera, “Perfect!”

“What are you doing?”

“Sending a quick reminder to my flatmate that his sister was a lying bitch and nothing she said was true.” She fired off the picture she’d just taken in a quick text to Sherlock, sending the selfie as well. She had captioned the pictures with the words “Look who I ran into. He says hi.”

“If you want to give him a heart attack, that’s a good way to do it.” Victor scolded from his station. She shrugged.

“He needs a kick every now and then. Besides, it’s sort of his fault I was out on the streets on that job in the first place, this is some low-scale payback.”

“You’re a cruel woman, Hannah Watson.” Victor wagged a finger at her while Mallory just chuckled and bent to her work. Her phone blew up with a string of responses. Including a phone call.

“Oh, look at that.” She raised an eyebrow. _“Hello?”_

_“Watson!”_

_“No, you’re not imagining things, that’s Victor Trevor. Turns out I’ve been seeing him every few weeks to months for about a year.”_ She smiled, _“Want to say hi?”_

_“Oh my god.”_

_“Breathe, Holmes.”_ She looked up.“Victor? You busy?”

“Nope.”

“Come here, I think he needs proof.” She wagged her phone at him. Victor came right over and took her phone from her, checking the screen before he lifted it to his ear.

 _*“Hello, handsome stranger. Did you miss me?”*_ He spoke fluent French, one of the innumerable languages Holmes spoke fluently. Hannah listened in on her end of the conversation, unable to pick up much that was said by Holmes, but it was clearly a very emotional conversation for him. For both of them.

“What’s that all about?” Mallory tipped her head at Victor.

“They haven’t spoken since going their separate ways in university after an attempt was made on Victor’s life and he went under special protection.”

“Oh my god, really?”

“He lived out of the country for a few years and came back, but never tried to re-engage with Holmes. This is the first time they’ve heard each other’s voices since then.” She sighed, “One good deed done for the day.” An hour later, she left Halo with Victor’s card in her pocket with orders to hand it to Holmes and he would be in touch soon.

“He needs all the friends he can get his hands on right now,” Hannah twirled the card between her fingers, “Thanks for everything, Victor.”

“I should thank you, Hannah! You…”

“I know. You’re welcome.” She hugged Victor, “Stop by Baker Street some time, we’d love to have you.”

“Alright. Of course I will, I haven’t seen him in years, and pictures and press-cons are awful for the real thing.” Victor kissed her on the cheek and held the door of the waiting taxi, “You’re an angel, Hannah Watson, too good for the rest of us.” She smiled and ordered the driver to Baker Street once the door was closed. It was a quiet, uninterrupted drive back to Baker Street. Letting herself into the house after paying the fare, she went upstairs and found Sherlock at the window, playing a slow, sad melody on his violin.

“You’re amazing. Did I tell you that already?”

“I told him to come by and visit. He said he would.” She hung her coat and shuffled over to the hearth, “Jesus, the weather is dismal today. So much for Valentine’s Day.”

“How is your leg?”

“Sore and a little stiff, typical for the kind of weather we’re having.” She leaned against the mantle and watched him, “Are you okay, Holmes?”

“Yes, I am.” He looked up and smiled, “Thank you, Watson.”

“My pleasure.” She ruffled her hair and flicked water from her fingertips, “I should start carrying a brolly around like your brother if it’s going to rain like this.” That got a chuckle out of the tall detective and he came over to join her by the fire. He studied her appearance, making mental comparisons to what she had looked like when she had gone out to what stood before him now.

“I never did see what you looked like before Victor cut your hair.”

“It wasn’t pretty, Holmes.” She showed him the “before” picture Victor had taken for her,

“That’s what he had to work with. This,” she made a broad gesture, “is the final product.”

“I like this look. Very in line with your personality type and skill-sets.” He set the violin aside and went to get a towel for her hair, “Here.”

“Ta.” She took the towel and carefully dried her hair, “Anything good come up while I was out?”

“No. Nothing that couldn’t be solved from here.”

“Rats.” She made a face, “Well, never mind. I still have to fill out the reports for The Met.”

“They’re on the work-table.” He hugged her tightly and sent her off with a quick pat on the hip. She muffled a yelp and looked at him.

“Oi!”

“Go on.”

“That’s not on, Holmes. That’s just mean.” She rolled her eyes and sat down at the work-table to fill out reports from the undercover case.

-&-

Hannah had just finished drafting notes for her next blog-entry, having started a blog documenting her adventures with Sherlock Holmes and The Met, when a knock sounded at the door. She glanced out the window and smiled.

“Perfect timing. He must have cleared his schedule.”

“Who is it?”

“That’s Victor. I’ve got to turn those reports in to Lestrade, so I’ll leave you boys to your fun.” She got up and grabbed the envelope with the reports and snagged her anorak on her way out the door after making sure she had her wallet and mobile. Sherlock was halfway down the stairs to get the door before Mrs Hudson could and she giggled.

“Alright, there, Casanova, take it easy!” She shook her head as she passed them at the door, “Let the poor man in out of the rain, Holmes, for Christ’s sake!” All she got for her scolding was a half-hearted obscene gesture. The boys were far more interested in making up for lost time and completely forgetting how to breathe by themselves. She caught sight of Mrs Hudson watching from the door of 221A and beaming, eyes shiny and wet. Hannah wasn’t jealous, maybe a bit sad that she still didn’t have someone like Victor to pick her up when she was down, to miss her like it was very clear Holmes and Victor had missed each other. She grabbed the idling cab and ordered the driver to The Met. She sighed and sent a text to Mycroft. She had messaged him earlier about finding out the truth about who Victor was to Sherlock, and he knew the deeper, more intimate history between the boys. It had been his suggestion to try and reunite them.

**Reunion between Sherlock and Victor Trevor went off without a hitch. Left them to their own devices, off to The Met with reports from this morning. – JW**

**How are you, though? – M**

**Tired, giddy, maybe a bit sad. Nothing I can’t handle. – JW**

It wasn’t the response he wanted, but it’s what he was going to get. It didn’t matter anyway, she hadn’t ever made any overtures and they had only kissed each other on the cheek. Hannah paid the fare when she got to The Met and headed inside to make sure all of their paperwork from this last case was in proper order.

* * *

 


	5. So Much For Valentine's Day Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A turning-point comes to the relationship between Holmes and Watson, whether it's a good one or not remains to be seen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Part 2 of the Valentine's Day shenanigans at Baker Street. Hannah has reunited Sherlock and Victor, and is prepared to step out of Sherlock's life if it comes to that. Who is she to want the impossible, after all? She never made a move on Sherlock, content to be friends, possibly friends-with-benefits, she was never going to pursue him romantically without knowing he was at all interested in something like that.  
> ::  
> This is told from Greg's POV, for the most part.

* * *

Greg Lestrade was processing paperwork from a week’s worth of cases when Hannah Watson showed up with the reports for the trafficking case she had gone undercover for. He knew very well what she had looked like when they took Groves into custody that morning, that was not the woman standing inside his office. She had said something about needing a haircut two days ago when he stopped by one of her stake-outs, and how she planned on taking care of that as soon as this job was over. It sure looked like she’d taken care of business.

“Captain Watson.”

“Inspector.” She smiled and held out the envelope, “All of our reports from Baker Street for the trafficking case.”

“Thanks. Damn fine work you did out there.”

“Hated every minute of it, but it paid off, didn’t it?” She looked around the office, “Nice digs.”

“You say that every time you’re in here.”

“It’s true.” She shrugged, “Anything on?”

“Just loads and loads of paperwork.” He gestured at his cluttered desk, “Nothing exciting right now, I’m afraid.”

“Pity.” She sat down across from him, taking a stack of reports and a biro and chipping in to cut down on the amount of paperwork he had to do by himself. She did it every time she was in his office, sometimes spending hours at a time helping him. He couldn’t help but notice a sadness to her mood, a tension that didn’t have much to do with the case they had just closed.

“You alright, Hannah?”

“Hmm?”

“You seem a little off, I don’t think it’s just the case.” He narrowed his eyes, “Is everything okay with you?”

“Yeah, it’s fine. It’s just…I’ve never been particularly fond of Valentine’s Day.” She sighed. Greg raised an eyebrow. That wasn’t all it was. He also knew he wasn’t going to get a better answer out of her, so he left it alone for the moment. She had just finished half of the stack she’d taken when a call came through for them. Greg groaned, wondering why holidays seemed to bring the worst out in people.

“No rest for the weary, is there?” Hannah set aside the finished reports.

“Nope. This should be interesting.” He got up and pocketed his badge, keys, and checked for his handcuffs and gun. Everything was in its place, time to go.

“Well, I’ve done all the damage I care to around here. I’ll let you get on your way.” Hannah collected her things and he held the door for her.

“Thanks for stopping by, Hannah. Don’t be a stranger.”

“Not likely.” She snorted, “I’m surprised you lot aren’t sick of me by now.” Greg chuckled and closed his office door. Hannah kept pace with him and followed him down to his car. She was in absolutely no hurry to leave, and he knew the loneliness of a couples’ holiday without a significant other was a big factor in her sadness.

“Well, see ya, Greg.” She waved and turned to go on her way. The weather and the case had really messed with Hannah’s injuries and she was moving rather slow.

“Hey, Watson.” He had an idea, probably not the brightest, but there was always one fail-safe way to break a clever mind’s funk. It had a 95% success rate with Sherlock and a 100% success rate with Hannah, it was worth an honest shot to try now.

“Hmm?”

“Want to come?” He grinned at her from over the roof of his car.

“Come…come with you? To the scene?”

“Yeah. Best cure for moody blues I know of is a good crime scene.”

“Oh, hell. It’s not like Holmes is going to miss me or anything.” She looked around and made up her mind about something. “Sure, why not? What’s the worst that can happen?”

“I manage to distract you, and maybe get the truth out of you.” He waited for her to get in and headed for the crime-scene after she was settled.

It was fairly cut-and-dry, but the apparent cause-of-death baffled the on-scene forensics team.

“We’ll have to let the coroner figure it out.” Philip Anderson shook his head as he de-gloved outside of the bedroom that housed the primary scene, “I’ve got nothing.”

“Are you sure? We aren’t missing anything?” Greg narrowed his eyes. It was highly unlikely they didn’t have some clue, just…something Anderson had missed. He seemed to do that quite often.

“Nothing stood out to me, Boss. I’ve seen my share of dead bodies.” Anderson made a face. Greg sighed and looked past Anderson at Hannah, who had been studying the body for the past five minutes while he spoke with Anderson. She had something, he recognized her body-language. It was like having Sherlock, just not as rude. But Hannah could tear into someone if she wanted to, he still remembered how she had deduced a few of Sally Donovan’s ugly secrets the very first time they’d ever had a thing to do with each other. It had been glorious and hilarious and Donovan hadn’t spoken to them for almost a week. Donovan seemed to be the only person on the team who didn’t like Hannah, aside from Anderson. He sighed.

“Yeah, alright. Go on, I’ll get this one down to Hooper.”

“Roger that.” Anderson shot a look at Watson, who crouched at a neutral distance from the body, “Watson! Don’t touch that body! Hear me?”

“Leave her alone, Anderson. She’s just doing her job. I brought her on, let her work. Get on, now.”

“Don’t need civilian consultants to do the professional’s job, y’know.”

“She’s doing your job, Anderson! I swear, she does your job better and she’s not even on our payroll! Probably should be for all the work she does!” Greg snapped, finally having had enough of it, “Six cases, in the last two months! Six, Anderson, that’s not a good statistic for you. Now, get. Before I write you up and relieve you of your job permanently.” Sufficiently cowed, Anderson scrammed and he approached the body and the clever consultant on the other side of it.

“Please tell me you have something useful?”

“I’ve got plenty. All on record, too.” She waved her phone at him, and he realized she had been running her voice-memo app to take notes of what she saw.

“God bless you, Hannah Watson.” He rocked forward on the balls of his feet, “So, what is it?” She broke down the basics, things he already knew about their victim, and then a few things no one else would have noticed.

“Do I have a cause-of-death for this poor woman?”

“Overdose. Choked on her own vomit. She was unconscious already, you’ll find evidence in her lungs of the aspiration, so have Molly Hooper check for that.”

“So, was this an accident?”

“I don’t see any visible coercion marks or any sign of a struggle. Black-light for bruising would be damn useful. Blood-toxicity testing is an absolute must to figure out what she overdosed on. Something nasty, though, and probably fast-acting.” Hannah looked at him, “Who called it?”

“Her boyfriend.”

“Is he still here?”

“Yep. Outside beyond the line. Why?”

“Because our miss here was raped.”

“You said…”

“No visible coercion marks. Whoever did this cleaned up the evidence. Not very well, but I know the smell.”

“Is that what that is?” He had noticed a familiar, slightly-caustic smell to the scene.

“Yep.”

“Wow. What an idiot to stick around like that, did he think he wouldn’t get caught?”

“Take him in for questioning.”

“Absolutely! Anything else you can give me?” He rubbed his upper lip with one finger, amazed as always at Hannah’s untapped gift.

“You’ll get the rest from Hooper. But I’ll search the house before I go anywhere.”

“More evidence?”

“Yep. Start in the bathroom.” Hannah got up and stepped over the body carefully, heading for the master-suite bathroom. She sorted through the bin for evidence and found a condom wrapper, a used condom, a few soiled flannels, and he heard a triumphant yell as he oversaw the moving of the body.

“Ah, got it! Oh, that’s just lovely!”

“What is it, Watson?”

“Got the murder weapon!” She waved something at them, “Consider ourselves lucky he didn’t dispose of this properly!” The item in question was a spent 1mL syringe with a 1-inch needle attached. It was inside a small sealed baggie, along with a vial of some substance.

“What the…”

“Victim’s a diabetic, Type 1, she keeps all of her SHARPS in a proper container. But idiot boyfriend didn’t think about that.”

“Watson, you evil little genius!”

“He wore gloves, unfortunately, but I saw blood under her fingernails. He’ll have scratches from her struggle.”

“That’s why there aren’t any coercion marks! He wore fucking gloves!” Which were bundled into the rape-kit.

“And covered any visible bruising with concealer.” Hannah pointed to a bottle of liquid concealer makeup that sat on the vanity, knocked over and the lid askew. Giddy, Greg had everything bagged up for evidence and stopped the coroner’s team from moving the body.

“Hold up, you lot!”

“Sir?”

“Show me, Watson.” He waved Hannah over and she unzipped the body-bag, pulling back the victim’s right sleeve and pointing out a small pin-prick injury above the victim’s median cubital vein below the cubital fossa.

“He would have been kneeling on her shoulder and holding her down with one hand, ambidextrous?”

“Nah. Held her down with his non-dominant hand, that’s why he knelt on her to hold her down.”

“Nice work, Watson.” He smirked and waved the coroner’s team on their way, “Now will you tell me what’s bothering you?”

“Ugh.”

“Please? You just solved my case for me.”

“Damn it, Greg.” She yanked off her gloves and the blue PPE suit, bundling them into the provided box. “Fine. But keep it to yourself.”

“Yeah, sure. No problem.” He followed her out of the house, “Is Sherlock involved?”

“Yep.”

“Great. Do I need to knock some sense into him?”

“Nope.” She pulled up the hood of her anorak once she’d collected her things, “I don’t suppose you know a bloke by the name of Victor Trevor?”

“Trevor? He was Sherlock’s best friend in uni, until he disappeared. They knew each other as kids. Think he died.”

“Not even close.” Hannah did something on her phone and handed it to him, “Recognize that fellow?”

“Oh my god, that’s Victor.” Greg blinked at the image. “That’s Victor Trevor! Hannah, where the hell did you find him?”

“Turns out, he’s my stylist over at Halo. I never once put the pieces together until today.”

“What tipped you off?”

“He said something about knowing Sherlock back in uni and it just sort of went from there.” She shrugged, but it was obvious this bothered her. She had nursed a bit of a crush on Sherlock for months, and it was likewise for Sherlock, and yet the two of them had never got their heads on right to do anything about it.

“Oh, Hannah.” Greg sighed and handed her phone back to her, “Feel like you might have missed your shot, yeah?”

“Just a bit. My fault, though, and I refuse to interfere on a chance for Sherlock to be happy for once.”

“Don’t you deserve to be happy, too, though?” He raised an eyebrow and thought about the times he and Mycroft had been proper idiots about the same damn thing before finally doing something about it. It was hard to believe they were coming up on two years married now. Hannah sighed and folded her arms against the roof of his car, her cane leaned against it on her side.

“No, I guess I don’t. If I deserved to be happy, wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, Watson.” Greg sighed and put his head down, resting his forehead against his arm, “Jesus, you’re a piece of work.”

“You know I’m right.”

“Damn it, Watson.” He heard a commotion over by the line and groaned, “If that’s…”

“Sherlock Holmes?”

“Don’t tell me he showed up?”

“Yep.”

“Honestly expected him earlier than this.” Greg looked up and over his shoulder, the line was behind them. Sure enough, there was Sherlock Holmes, giving Sally Donovan a hard time. Behind him was Victor Trevor and…who was that?

“Oh, hello. Who’s that?” Hannah had noticed the third of their party, “Handsome fellow.”

“Not a bleeding clue.” Greg ruffled his hair, “Well, should we go break this up before she takes a swing at him?”

“Might as well.” Hannah grabbed her cane and they headed for the line. Greg realized that Sherlock was actually behaving himself, just trying to get through the line. It was Donovan giving him a hard time.

“All I need is two minutes to look for Hannah Watson, I don’t need to look at the scene. Please, Donovan.”

“I said no, Holmes.” Donovan looked the tall detective over, “What is so important about her anyway?”

“Oh, Christ.”

“I heard worse on the streets, Greg,” Hannah whispered. “She doesn’t like me, and there’s nothing we can do to change her mind.”

“You shouldn’t have to put up with that kind of treatment.” Greg muttered, “What’s gotten into Sherlock?”

“Your guess is as good as mine.” Hannah shrugged. When they got to within line-of-sight of the line, Trevor spotted them coming and got Sherlock’s attention. When Sherlock’s handsome ex-boyfriend pointed them out, the way he reacted was a little unexpected. Completely ignoring Donovan, who made an aborted grab for him, Sherlock ducked under the line and broke into a run.

“Brace yourself, Watson.”

“What on…whoa! Hey, whoa!” Hannah stumbled when Sherlock finally got hold of her and practically picked her up.

“Okay, you two, take it easy.” Greg picked up Hannah’s cane from where it had fallen when she dropped it. “You okay, Sherlock?”

“Watson! Oh, god, I am so sorry!”

“Sorry for what? Hey, what’s wrong?”

“Damn good question. I’ll ask the level heads in the group.” Greg rolled his eyes, “Keep it to a minimum, kiddies.” Not that Hannah and Sherlock had ever gone beyond hugging on a crime-scene and a few innocent cheek-kisses. He knew that cuddling on a grander scale happened behind closed doors at Baker Street, he’d seen it with his own two eyes during the occasional match, and had even seen the two get particularly cosy at a Pub Night or two.

“Alright, start talking.” He ducked the line and looked at Trevor before looking over his shoulder, “What’s got into him?”

“How much do you already know, Inspector?”

“Not enough for that to make any sense.” He pointed at the couple on the other side of the tape, “They’re acting like they haven’t seen each other in a month. What’s going on? And who’s this?”

“I’m glad you asked before assuming, sir.” Trevor looked at the man beside him and smiled, but it was a sad smile, “This is my husband, Jack Evans.”

“Oh, Jesus. You…” Greg put the pieces together and covered his mouth with one hand, “You got yourself married off while you were under the radar! You lucky bastard. Didn’t break _his_ heart too badly, did it?” He knew how fond of Trevor Sherlock had been, how excited he would have been to see him again.

“He knew before I said anything, he always knows things like that.”

“So you brought your husband into the picture to explain things properly. Oh, poor Sherlock.”

“I think it’s Hannah Watson we should be more worried about.” Evans looked at the couple, “I know it’s not something either of them will ever ask for, it’s not in them, but they deserve what makes them happy.”

“And God help us all, they make each other so happy.” Greg leaned against the squad-car to his left, “Christ.”

“Do you think maybe this will spur her to move into Baker Street for good?”

“Depends on a lot of things. The way this goes could make or break something beautiful.” Greg worried his lip, “Oh, please don’t screw this up, kids. Not now.”

“On a different subject, did she solve your case for you?”

“Yep. I threatened to fire my forensics lead for incompetence.” Greg watched the consulting pair he called on for cold-case work and live cases alike, “I’ve only had Hannah on the docket for two months and in the last month alone she’s worked and closed six cases. That doesn’t look good when an unpaid consultant is smarter than someone on my payroll. And never mind her closure rate for cold cases.”

“Philip Anderson’s case-record wasn’t that stellar, to begin with, was it?”

“No, unfortunately. But he is good at his job, just not…not good enough.” He kept an eye on Hannah and Sherlock as they ducked the line, “Where are the pair of you off to?”

“I’ll meet you back at your office, Greg.”

“Alright, you know the drill.” He knew it wasn’t what they wanted to do, but he could always depend on Hannah to get her reports out of the way right away if she had the means and the time.

“See you tonight, Sherlock?” Trevor caught Sherlock by the sleeve.

“Of course. Angelo's at nine?”

“We’ll be there.”

“See you at nine.” Then they were gone, round the corner at the end of the street and out of sight. Greg sighed and looked at Trevor and Evans.

“Alright, I’ll let you gents get on your way. It was nice to meet you, Mr Evans.”

“Likewise, Inspector. Hannah speaks rather well of you on her blog.”

“Oh, god, you two read her blog?” Hannah’s crime-blog had quite a readership, including everyone in Greg’s division and in other divisions at The Met. His team had to endure some good-natured ribbing for a pair of street-tecs doing a better job, but Sherlock had always had a nose for crime and now he had a side-kick and a partner who was just as smart, just as observant, and rather good at a take-down. Hannah was well-liked by a lot of people at The Met, so they were just as likely to defend her as they were to laugh at her because she was smart enough to do their jobs without pay or sufficient resources.

“Of course we read her blog! It’s always a treat to read up on the latest misadventures.” Trevor smiled as they shook hands, “Good luck to you, Inspector. Do try to keep Sherlock Holmes and Hannah Watson out of trouble.”

“I do my best. Have a good evening, gents.” He watched until Trevor and Evans were out of sight and groaned. Tonight was going to be a nightmare for paperwork. At least he hadn’t planned anything spectacular for the night, seeing as he was going to be busy.

When he got back to the office, Hannah was busy with her reports for the latest case and Sherlock was solving a stack of cases that had been festering on his desk for two weeks. This was a very normal sight for him to come back to at the office and a comfortable one. Hannah finished her reports and split the rest of the stack Sherlock was working on and he chuckled as they traded theories and clues like old women at gossip. Greg dug a ledger out of his desk and began filling out a cheque for them. They paid Sherlock, and now Hannah, on a case-by-case basis for the cases they solved, including live work and cold-case work. He kept a tally of the cases worked and solved and eyed the stack between them. Filling out everything except the amount, he kept up his bit of the work.

 

At one point, the superintendent stopped by. She always did when Sherlock was around, it was kind of her way of keeping an eye on things and making sure Sherlock kept in line. Also, Greg suspected his superior actually  _liked_ Sherlock, not that she would ever say as much out loud if asked.

“Lestrade.”

“Ma’am.”

“Holmes. Watson.” Victoria Graham smirked as she leaned against the door-frame, “Good work on the trafficking case.”

“Thank you, ma’am.” The pair was respectful of Greg’s superior. They always had been, Sherlock especially in the aftermath of the last few events to shake things up in London.

“And Watson, good job with the Milliner case. Heard you made a bit of an idiot out of Anderson again.”

“Didn’t mean to do his job, ma’am. It was right there, plain as day.” Bless Hannah for being a bit smug while still being modest.

“Oh, don’t be so modest, Watson. If I had six of you, things would be a lot simpler. You’re good at this, you know.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Hannah blushed, praise from Greg’s bosses was hard to come by and usually begrudgingly given. But Graham liked her, a lot.

“Watson.” Uh oh. Greg knew what that tone of voice meant, and so did Hannah.

“Ma’am?” She was already on her feet. Graham simply beckoned with one hand. Without another word, Hannah followed Graham outside. Whatever they said was cut off as Graham closed the door.

“She’s not in trouble, is she?” Sherlock asked in a whisper.

“Doubt it. Graham likes Hannah, a lot more than she likes anyone else around here. Not sure what the attraction is.” Greg shook his head, fairly sure Hannah wasn’t in any trouble.

“I believe Superintendent Graham was one of Watson’s superior officers at one point.” Sherlock glanced at the closed door, “They do get along rather well.”

“I noticed. I just thought Hannah had charmed Graham like the rest of us.” Greg went back to work, one ear to the door. He wouldn’t be able to hear a damn thing, but it was the principle of the matter. As Sherlock worked, he kept thinking about what he’d witnessed at the crime scene.

“I can hear you thinking, it’s rather distracting.”

“Sorry.” He cleared his throat, “So, uh, Trevor and Evans? How…did that go?”

“I knew Jack Evans in university, we were all classmates. I knew right away that Victor was married, Lestrade, I make my living on observation.” Sherlock looked up at him, “He’s happy, he’s safe, and that’s all I need to know.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” Greg rubbed his forehead. God, Hannah and Sherlock were so stubborn.

“What?”

“You and Hannah both, a bloody pair of martyrs. Christ, why are you afraid of being happy, Sherlock?”

“Have you forgotten my history, Lestrade?”

“No! But that mess does not preclude you getting a chance to be happy! And son, long as I’ve known you, I have never seen you as happy as you’ve been these past two months! It’s a bit mad how much you’ve changed! Watching you and Hannah work a scene together is always a treat, I swear half the time you don’t even talk to each other, you just…know.” He rested his elbows on the desk, folding his hands under his chin, “Sherlock, if anyone deserves to be happy, it’s you. I’m not talking a fairy-tale Happily Ever After, that kind of thing doesn’t really exist in the real world we live in, but Hannah Watson is everything you deserve in a partner. I’ve seen you, in the field and behind closed doors, I know you two share the same bed, that’s not a secret. But you’ve never kissed her, you’ve never…wanted.”

“Wanting and having are very different things.”

“And you have a shot at both!” He rubbed his chin with one finger, “Sherlock, please, please. For once in your messed up life, follow your heart.”

“Never let your heart rule your mind.”

“Bollocks, and you know it! Where would I be if that was true, hm? Where would your brother be if that was true? We’d both be lonely, desperate men wondering if we’d lost a once-in-a-lifetime chance at real happiness. I have never regretted that decision, not once in two years. Two fucking years, Sherlock, that’s a long time!”

“What do I do?” Chameleon eyes were hazel as Sherlock looked up at him, frightened. “Two months is hardly enough time to know everything.”

“And yet, you knew everything inside of a bloody month, you idiot.” He sighed, “Sherlock, that girl has been as lonely, broken, and lost as you. I mean, for a while, she was part of your Homeless Network. She’s saved your life, she’s saved Mycroft’s life, on more than one occasion for you, and you saved hers two months ago. And it wasn’t just her life you saved, it was everything that makes Hannah Watson the brilliant, sassy consultant who solves cases almost faster than you do.”

“How do you know if it’s love?”

“Hmm?”

“Love, Lestrade, you know what I mean.”

“It’s not something I can quantify, Sherlock. But if you’re asking if two months is enough time to know, I’d say yeah. I knew within two weeks of meeting Mycroft, but it took us too fucking long to get out of our heads and do something about it. I almost lost him, Sherlock, so many times.” Memories of what he had seen and experienced at Sherrinford and Musgrove Hall would haunt him to his deathbed, the legitimate fear that Mycroft was dead before he realized it was all a very clever trick.

“Lestrade?”

“Hmm?”

“Go home tonight.”

“I can’t, Sherlock.”

“Yes, you can. You need to be with your husband tonight.” The stack of finished files had grown a bit. Sherlock worked well under stress, he had noticed, and this was definitely stressful for him. Emotions were still a very new idea to the detective, the idea of letting someone get close was alien to him, and yet…in two months, the impossible had happened.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes?”

“Follow your heart tonight. Just this once, don’t worry about rejection.”

“Will you go home to your husband?”

“Will you take an enormous risk and step into the unknown?” He watched the door, wondering what Graham had wanted Hannah for.

“It’s not so much stepping as it is holding my breath and jumping into the deep end.” Sherlock looked shy, “I can’t…”

“Don’t worry about saying the words, Sherlock, just do what feels right.” He looked up as the door opened and Hannah came back in. Sherlock looked at his partner, Greg was familiar with that particular look, and in a heartbeat had grabbed his phone and fired off a text message. A response came back quickly and it was apparently the answer Sherlock had hoped to hear. He smiled, tucked the phone into his pocket, and pushed the chair out with his foot so Hannah could sit down. They worked in coordinated silence, cutting his workload to half, and Hannah finally asked to go home.

“Holmes?”

“Yes?”

“Let’s go home.” Not “Let’s go back to Baker Street.” That was huge. Greg smiled as Sherlock checked his phone again and nodded.

“Yes, lets. Do you need anything else, Lestrade?”

“Nope! You two kids have a good night.” He saw them to the street, he always did, not missing when Hannah openly reached for Sherlock’s hand, pulling off his glove and tucking it into her pocket. They always walked so that her left side was free in case she had her cane and needed the manoeuvring room like she did today. He smiled as he held the door of the taxi for them and gave the driver the Baker Street address.

“See you two in a few days.” He leaned into the cab, “Take it easy, alright? You two worked hard enough for the whole division these last couple of weeks. Take a break.”

“Call us if anything interesting comes up.” Hannah smiled and he kissed her on the cheek.

“You get some rest, Captain, God knows you’ve earned it.” He backed out and watched until the cab was out of sight. Going back to his office, Greg finished up a few things, setting the finished files aside for the archives.

“You’re going home, right?” Graham stopped by again.

“Yep. Just shutting down for the night.” He cleared off his desk of everything except the files, put his computer into hibernation mode, and grabbed his work-bag. He took a couple of the remaining files for homework, made sure he had his keys, badge, and gun, and grabbed his coat on his way out, turning off the lights and locking his door.

“Have a good night, Lestrade.”

“You, too, Graham. Good night, ma’am.”

“Good night. I’ll make sure Dimmock and Gregson take the calls tonight.” She waved him off and he checked on his team before leaving. A quick call to Mycroft ensured that his husband was home and would be so until further notice. Good. He didn’t have anything particular planned, but it was nice to know there weren’t going to be any disturbances from work. At least not from his work. He couldn’t speak for the higher powers Mycroft answered to. He just hoped that Hannah and Sherlock had a night to themselves.

* * *

 


	6. So Much For Valentine's Day Pt 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Part 3 of the Valentine's Day shenanigans at Baker Street. Hannah has reunited Sherlock and Victor, and is prepared to step out of Sherlock's life if it comes to that. Who is she to want the impossible, after all? She never made a move on Sherlock, content to be friends, possibly friends-with-benefits, she was never going to pursue him romantically without knowing he was at all interested in something like that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this is where the angst makes itself known. I'm sorry. So, SO sorry. However, if angst is your cuppa, then I hope you enjoy. If it's not...I promise I don't make them suffer for too long. A chapter or two worth of angst with what I hope is a satisfying resolution.

* * *

When Hannah had started her day, she hadn’t expected it to end quite the way it did. She had started the day on the streets, masquerading as a homeless veteran, and things had kind of just...happened from there. There had been plans of some sort to meet up with Victor and his husband for dinner, but those plans had been changed in favour of what was a typical night in for them. But the mess of the undercover case had left her craving a bit of normalcy. Not that her normal was what anyone else might consider an adequate description of the word. Her normal was running the dark streets of after-dark London chasing criminals and writing up blog-entries about her misadventures, late-night takeaway while Sherlock composed music or worked on experiments in the kitchen. Usually, she watched bad crap telly while he worked, and put up with his belly-aching and rude deductions of the talk-show hosts and guests, or taking apart one of her procedural dramas, scoffing at how inaccurate it all was. She had started watching The First 48, a show from America, just to keep him occupied since he seemed to enjoy deducing the cases. He was rather good at it, actually, and it was always fun to test his skills.

Tonight was a little different, though, and she was okay with that. After they had gotten home from their day out, Sherlock had disappeared into the bedroom and she heard the water go on. He was taking a shower, then. That was fine. Hannah went upstairs and got changed into comfortable clothes, wearing her Army PFU track-pants and a black tee-shirt decorated with the insignia and motto of the Royal Northumberland Fusiliers. When she got back downstairs, she got a fire started in the hearth and turned on the telly, looking for something to watch. As she waited for Sherlock to come out, Hannah thought about her conversation with Victoria Graham. They had talked for a good fifteen minutes, the longest she’d ever spoken to any of Greg’s superiors, but it was a conversation between old friends. She had served under Graham ages ago, back when she’d been fresh out of boot-camp and still an optimistic young recruit who could barely tie up her boot-laces the right way. Graham, an observant woman by nature and familiar with Hannah the way very few people were, had basically had a sit-down with her and laid out a few things for her consideration.

Hannah knew Sherlock liked her, liked her more than he’d ever have the guts to admit to, and she was guilty of a not-insignificant crush on her flat-mate. But when Victor Trevor had reentered the picture, for however short a time that had turned out to be, she had been reluctantly willing to back off and let Sherlock have his shot at a happy ending. And yet, she had always been a treacherously jealous individual when it came to partners she was very fond of, and three different people had picked up on her jealousy. Mycroft knew, and Greg had read her like an open book, and how many times had she poured her heart out to Graham after things went sour with a partner while she’d still been in the Army? Of course Graham knew what it looked like when Hannah’s heart was broken and she just didn’t have the guts to say it out loud! And Graham had basically sat her down and explained that she wasn’t imagining things with Sherlock, he really did like her, but he was a man. And men, as they both knew, were practically idiots any way you cut it. That did not exclude her genius flat-mate, and she knew that. But having it read out for her by a second party was hard. Hannah had tried to deny it, but Graham wasn’t stupid.

“Do you love him?”

“Yes?”

“Watson.”

“Ma’am?” She had looked up at Graham, feeling for a moment very much like she had when she had been reprimanded for doing something wrong.

“Do. You. Love. Sherlock Holmes?”

“I adore him, ma’am, I would do anything for him.”

“Which is why you stepped back when you thought you had no place in his world.”

“I don’t, though! I told you, Victor Trevor’s an old, long-time friend of his and they used to date! I can’t get in the way of that!”

“Bollocks! Trevor’s married, and rather happily, if I had to hazard a guess! He showed up at Baker Street to put things to rights with Sherlock and come clean with him!” Graham had looked down at her, a familiar hard gleam in her eye, “Get it out of your head that you lost a chance, because that’s only going to happen if you two continue to be willful little idiots!”

“Victor’s…married?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Oh my god.” Hannah had almost broken down in tears at that. She still didn’t regret reuniting Victor and Sherlock, she never would, it meant so much to them both. But…where did that leave her? Graham had leaned over Hannah and given her a very simple piece of advice: “Follow your heart. Just this once. Whatever you want, I guarantee he wants the same. Just follow your heart.” So, with a heaviness in her chest, she had gone home with Sherlock. Something told her that Sherlock had gotten a similar talking-to from Greg, and now she was trying to figure out what the hell she was going to do.

 

She was distracted from her dismal train of thought by the sound of the bell. Mrs Hudson was out, on another date with Mr Turner no doubt and she should be, considering the significance of the day. Sherlock was still in the bathroom, so she shoved off of the couch and made her way downstairs, grabbing her pistol from the coffee-table and tucking it into the back of her track-pants. When she got to the door, slow going no thanks to her dodgy knee, she wrestled it open and was fully prepared to berate whoever had come knocking three seconds before she recognized the beaming man standing outside their door.

“Oh! Angelo! Hi!”

“Hello, dear.” The cheerful Italian dragged her out of the house and into a hug, “Heard you’ve had a day of things.”

“That’s a word for it.” She sniffled. Angelo smelled like fresh pasta, Pomodoro sauce, basil, and wine.

“Well, maybe this will cheer you up!” He hefted his burden, an insulated zipper-top bag, it smelled glorious. Hannah wasn’t sure the sound that got stuck in her throat was actually human. She was nearly starving by this point, so any food was welcome.

“Oh, Angelo.”

“Come on, come on with you!” He hustled her into the house, making sure to close the door once he was in. “And don’t worry, my nephew is manning the helm tonight.”

“Was I going to ask?” She raised an eyebrow and followed him back up the stairs to 221B. Hannah got into the flat and found him setting the table in the kitchen, carefully moving Sherlock’s things out of the way. She stood in the doorway of the kitchen, baffled by what she was witnessing. The cheerful Italian who seemed to have made it a personal goal of his to not only ensure that Hannah and Sherlock never went hungry on a case or post-case, but had tried everything in his meagre mortal power to set them up as a proper couple, was currently moving around the kitchen like he lived there. He clearly knew his way around, and she was at a loss.

“Angelo?”

“Hmm?”

“What are you doing?” She watched him open a bottle of what she recalled was the restaurant’s best wine.

“Exactly what it looks like. Go get Sherlock.” He just grinned at her and jerked his head in the direction of the bedroom. Hannah sighed and padded through the kitchen to the bedroom, knocking before she went in.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“Er, Angelo’s here.”

“Oh, good. Did he come up?”

“Yes.” She closed the door behind her and leaned against it, watching as he pulled a white tee-shirt over his head, “Did I miss something?”

“Is it imperative that you know everything?”

“Well, no.” She made a face, “But, a little head’s up would be nice. Did you call him or something?”

“No, I sent him a text message while we were still with Lestrade.”

“Oh.” She sighed, “So, instead of us going out, Angelo brought the experience to Baker Street.” That actually made sense, in a weird way. She hadn’t really felt up to spending more time around crowds of people, never mind ungrateful people, and wondered if she had really been that obvious. Of course, it was Sherlock, he would have noticed right away. Hannah sighed and leaned her head back against the door, closing her eyes. She didn’t hear him move, but suddenly, she was blocked in by the tall detective. She stilled as one hand curved around the back of her neck, calloused finger-tips sliding into her hair, she heard him make a soft sound as he explored the shorter strands.

“Oh, Watson.” He breathed, his breath soft against her cheek, “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t apologise.” She whispered, “Just fucking kiss me already.” He chuckled and touched noses with her before his lips touched hers. Something in her chest unravelled and she moaned into the kiss. Sherlock was not her first kiss, not by a long shot, but it was the first that made her feel like she mattered to someone. The only time she pulled away was when she had to breathe, and she blinked unfocused eyes.

“Whoa.”

“I am not nearly as skilled as you are.”

“Bullshit.” She caught her breath, “Surprise me, why don’t you?”

“The surprise is in the kitchen.” He smiled and reached around her for the doorknob, “Do you trust me?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Always.” He opened the door and let her out first. The kitchen had gone through a transformation while she’d been in the bedroom with Sherlock, and she stopped short.

“Not to repeat myself but, whoa! What happened to the kitchen?” Any sign of Sherlock’s equipment had been cleared from the kitchen. Every surface was clean, the table had been cleared off and re-set with a white tablecloth and laid with tea-candles and a squat vase with six red roses as the centre-piece, and full place-settings. Plates loaded with food were set at each place, hers and Sherlock’s, there was salad, pasta, and bread enough to feed a small army. Glasses of wine and water sat at each place.

“Angelo, you’ve outdone yourself.” Sherlock murmured, eyes glowing in the light of the candles. The whole place was warm thanks to the fire, and additional light was provided by more candles set on any flat surface available in the kitchen. They were all LED candles, she noticed, and there were a lot of them. The work-table lamp and her reading-lamp were on in the sitting-room, but that was it, none of the overheads had been turned on. Angelo stood at the head of the table, his back to the sitting-room, beaming like he’d won the lottery. Hannah caught her breath as Sherlock nudged her into the temporarily-redecorated kitchen and sat down as Angelo held her chair for her. He did the same for Sherlock and laid something by Hannah’s plate as he leaned over the back of her chair to kiss her on the cheek.

“Please have a blessed evening, my dear soldier. You do not smile enough, you have so little to be happy for. Find your happiness here.”

“Thank you so much, Angelo. For everything.” She took his hand, “You’ve been so good to us.”

“It is what I am here for. Sherlock.”

“Thank you, Angelo. For everything.” Sherlock smiled at the cheerful man, who kissed them both before disappearing down the stairs, whistling a bright Italian love-song. That’s when she realized there was music playing. Soft ballads played at just the right volume.

“Did you ask him to do this, Sherlock?”

“Not this, I swear.”

“It’s fine.” She picked up her glass, “After the last couple of weeks, this is perfect.” It was quiet as they ate, and after she had eaten all she could stomach, he shooed her out of the kitchen and cleaned up. But Angelo had seen to that as well and he joined her shortly with their wine-glasses. She took hers when he held it out and patted the couch next to her. Sherlock sat down carefully, but once he was settled, she snuggled up against him and wondered how on earth she was going to make the most of “follow your heart”. He flipped through channels looking for something to watch on background and came up with a football match. She raised an eyebrow and took a sip of wine.

“I thought you didn’t like football.”

“Not particularly, but there doesn’t seem to be anything else on at the moment and I’m not in the mood to get up to find something in our collection.” He sniffled. “Our collection” he’d said, and Hannah smiled.

“I can move if you need me to.”

“Don’t you dare.” he grabbed her by the hand just in case she thought it might be a good idea to get up. “It’s fine, it’s perfect. Don’t move. Please.”

“Okay.” She settled back. It was quiet for a while as they watched the match, Sherlock rolled his eyes and muttered about bad calls and Hannah booed the refs for favouring Manchester United. After a while, she thought of something and set her glass down.

“Sherlock?”

“Hmm?”

“I’m sorry. About Victor. I didn’t know, I didn’t know anything.”

“I’m not sorry about Victor. We were never exclusive, and he’s very lucky to have survived this long. He is no longer in danger, but we are only friends.”

“Okay. I’m just…sorry about it.” She rubbed her arm, “I feel kind of bad.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know, I just…do.”

“Hannah.”

“What?”

“What did Major Graham tell you?”

“I imagine the same thing Greg must have told you.”

“And what do you think he told me?”

“Some nonsense about doing the right thing for once and forgetting what your head tells you to do.”

“Is it really nonsense, though?” He asked softly, “Do you really think that?”

“I don’t know what to think, Sherlock. My life was flipped upside-down almost two years ago and I barely have my head above water.” Hannah folded her arms across her chest.

“You are in a much better place than you were two months ago, and we both know it.” He was smart enough to avoid touching her, but she knew he wanted to. It was one thing that had surprised her, how tactile her partner could be, how much he enjoyed touching. It was always small, subtle, and publicly acceptable, but when they were on a scene or she was staying over at Baker Street, he was nearly always touching her in some way. Holding hands in the cabs; hands on shoulders, thighs, or knees, passed off as supporting touches at crime-scenes; sitting pressed together shoulder-hip-thigh at Pub Nights with The Met, holding hands under the table and keeping the rumor-mills running full steam ahead; quiet nights at Baker Street, just like this one, with takeaway and something suitably awful on the telly as background. Sometimes they worked cases, sometimes they didn’t. And tonight. That kiss, that bloody kiss. It wasn’t that she hadn’t enjoyed it, because she certainly had, but she just didn’t…she didn’t feel like she deserved it. That was Robert talking, and she knew it, but his voice was always loudest.

“Hannah?”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m so tired I can barely think straight. I’ll see you in the morning.” She heaved herself off the couch, grabbed her phone from the coffee table, and headed for the stairs, “Thank you, really, for everything.”

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

“I’m fine.” She knew he didn’t believe her, she wasn’t expecting him to, and made her way upstairs to her room. Setting her alarm for the morning, she plugged her phone in and went through her nightly routine. Hannah did not sleep well that night, and she blamed her exhaustion, the pain in her joints, and the weather on it.

-&-

When her alarm went off the next morning, she got dressed in the dark, collected her things, and quietly left Baker Street without saying anything to Sherlock. She reported to her job-training at the assigned time and place and gave her full focus. Her trainers and co-workers knew about her side-work with The Met, and the case she’d solved yesterday was already in the news, but she deflected the questions with her usual bluntness.

“We’re not clucky old women at gossip around here, people, we’re professionals. Act like it.” She snapped at a pair of younger medics who were comparing notes about Sherlock. Their wide-eyed stares followed her around the corner and she shook her head irritably. It was going to be one of those days, it seemed.


	7. Run From Your Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah Watson has left Baker Street, and the detectives are being a couple of idiots. It really is just that simple.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Angst ahoy! I'm so sorry!  
> ::  
> A very dark chapter of Hannah's past is about to come crashing squarely into her present. This is not going to be pleasant for anyone.

* * *

It was two weeks before Hannah saw Sherlock again after Valentine’s Day, despite numerous phone-calls and text messages as he attempted to make contact. He apologised for saying the wrong thing, it was very clear something had gone wrong that day, and if she would forgive him, that was all he wanted. But he had nothing to apologise for, he hadn’t done anything wrong. Then why was she punishing him as if he had?

Things went from bad to worse one night as she walked home from Stepney Green Station, a thirteen-minute walk to New Belvedere House. She had turned from Belgrave Street onto Troon Street, which would take her home with a right on White Horse Road, and was focused only on getting back to the hostel, back to her room. She needed a shower and sleep, she was covered with any number of bodily fluids, almost none of them her own. Sweat plastered her hair to her scalp and it stuck up at odd angles, she had blood, urine, and vomit stains on her uniform, and a particularly violent patient had landed a solid blow to her gut. Another patient had actually bitten her, thankfully it hadn’t broken skin and he had taken more of her uniform than her arm, but that was another notch on a terrible day.

 

So when she was jumped by a half-mad homeless man, she didn’t even think to fight back. She did have the sense to run and took off towards Whitehorse Road Park. He was right behind, but she kept one step ahead of him until they reached Ben Johnson Road/B140. Cutting right on Ben Johnson, she ran until she intersected with the pedestrian Bermuda Way, which took her up to Dongola Road, where she cut left again and ran for Duckett Street, where she turned right and went north a while, cutting right again when she got to Bale Road.

Along her run on Duckett, she caught a glimpse of blue and white out of the corner of her eye and turned her head enough to make out a couple of Met vehicles and some police-tape over on Bohn Road. Salvation was just that close! She kept running, though, dragging east on Bale Road and running again until she got to Harford Road. She was slowing down, her body was yelling “Stop! Stop, God’s sake, STOP!”, but she couldn’t stop until she reached the police. Even if Greg Lestrade wasn’t there, she wasn’t a nobody and there was bound to be one person on-scene who knew her. And even then, all she needed to do was yell for help. She was very clearly in trouble, an idiot could see that, and her would-be assailant was hot on her heels. Bohn Road was closed off at the middle round-about drive, with primary lines set up on either end closer to the intersections with Duckett and Harford, and she put on a burst of speed. She was within shouting distance and someone had seen her, she was kind of hard to miss, when something hit her from behind and she went down hard. It wasn’t the initial impact that made her scream, it was when she landed on sore ribs. Something snapped, and she just waited for the inevitable. Without meaning to, she screamed Sherlock’s name. Well, if they hadn’t known she was in trouble before, it was bloody obvious now, wasn’t it? This many cops around, they weren’t going to ignore her. They couldn’t.

-&-

Greg Lestrade was hunched over a cooling body, homeless drifter caught up in something if he had to guess, Sherlock Holmes on the other side, when one of his team came over.

“Hey, Chief?”

“Not now, Jensen.” He muttered.

“Uh, sir? We’ve got a problem?”

“What?” He looked up, tired, annoyed, and running on six hours of sleep in the last week and too much bad food and worse coffee. He had chain-smoked three packs of cigarettes in the last three days, he was suffering from exhaustion and nicotine poisoning. Whatever it was, it had better be damned important or someone’s head was going to roll.

“One of the lads saw a runner, sir, over there on Duckett. Think there might be a domestic. Should we do something about it?” Charlie Jensen looked nervous, and Greg didn’t blame him. He sighed and ruffled his hair with one shaking hand.

“Jesus Christ. Send a car, see where they went. How many did you see?”

“Uh, one, sir. But there was another right behind.”

“Damn!” He leaned his head back, “Can I get one break? Just one?” With his orders, Jensen disappeared again. Greg looked across the body to Sherlock, who seemed to be debating on saying something. He glared at the consultant. “You, shut your mouth. It’s your fault, and hers, that you haven’t seen her in two weeks. I don’t want to hear a word, you understand?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Do you know this one?” Meaning the body between them.

“No, sir. Not one of mine. It was a hate-crime, though.”

“Fantastic. Not like we’re in a posh part of town, anyway.” He shoved to his feet. A minute later, there was a commotion off towards Harford Road, and a familiar voice broke into a scream. In a heartbeat, Greg was on alert and heading for the lines. That was Hannah Watson! What in Hell’s name was the girl doing up here on Bohn Road? She lived around here, he knew, down on White Horse Road at New Belvedere House. He’d given her a ride home a couple of times. He saw someone running away from the scene, and had his radio up in a heartbeat.

_“Suspect on the move heading east on Bohn Road! Track him down on Harford! Get him! I want that fucker in handcuffs ASAP, do you hear me!”_

_“Roger that, sir.”_ The responding cars were already on the move and the streets lit up with white and blue as they ran down the fleeing suspect. Someone had been running down Hannah, who had probably been on her way home from work given the time of day.

_“And someone get an ambulance up here!”_

_“Already called them up, Chief!”_ Donovan called in from the other side of the line, she had been the first to reach Hannah, _“She’s in bad shape, sir, we might have to take her in!”_

“Jesus, what is it with you two making my life harder than necessary?” He glared at Sherlock, who was under the line in a heartbeat. “She may not want to see you, Sherlock!”

“I’m willing to take that risk!”

“Moron.” He followed the consulting detective, who had already reached Donovan and was on his knees beside the straight-laced, by-the-book Detective Inspector he had never really gotten on with as long as the two had anything to do with each other. It didn’t take long for the ambulance to arrive, and he helped them load Hannah onto the gurney. He knew that the blood on her uniform was not hers, thank Christ. It didn’t take long for them to diagnose a concussion of unknown severity and a few broken ribs. She’d been hit from behind with a rock, thrown by her assailant in an attempt to take her out. They took the rock for evidence. If they didn’t catch that bastard tonight, any DNA left on the rock by him would lead them in the right direction.

He convinced the ambulance team to let Sherlock go with them to the hospital, he knew the man would be all but useless to him until he knew for certain that Hannah was alright. As the ambulance left the scene, lights flashing and siren on, Greg closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Damn fool kids. Lovesick idiots, the both of them. Sherlock was like a kicked puppy and Hannah was broken by her past. Her step-father’s shadow had a long reach and they didn’t know if the fucker was still alive, waiting in the shadows to spring his wrath on his unsuspecting step-daughters. Hannah was in her forties, she should not still be living in fear of a man who had stolen her innocence in the very worst ways.

“Chief?”

“What, Donovan?”

“They got him.”

“What’s that?” Greg looked at his former sergeant.

“The man who ran down Hannah Watson. We got him. They’ve got him in a car over on Harford and Ben Johnson.”

“Good. Have them take him down to Holding, I’ll deal with him after I’m done here and I’ve stopped by the hospital.”

“Do you think they’ll keep Watson overnight?”

“In her condition? Probably. She was in pretty rough shape, wasn’t she?” He went back to the body, wishing for a minute that things could just be…quiet. He wished Hannah and Sherlock could be happy together, because it was very obvious to him that there were feelings on both sides, but something was getting in the way.

“Want me to cover this one, Chief? You need a break.” Donovan put a hand on his arm, “You need to deal with Holmes. I’ll handle this.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah. Go on.” She smiled and squeezed, “You’re a bloody open book sometimes, Chief. Go on, get out of here. See you at the office.”

“It’ll be tomorrow at this rate.”

“That’s okay.” Donovan pushed him towards the Harford line and he dug up his keys. He needn’t have bothered, a familiar black sedan appeared behind his car like a wraith and he sighed. Of course Mycroft had seen, of course he knew. A appeared and took his keys, just pointing at the sedan with a familiar stern look.

“He said it’s no trouble.”

“Meddling bastard. Thank god for cameras, A.” He smiled tightly at the woman and ducked into the warm, dry interior of his husband’s car.

“Thanks for this.”

“Not quite my pleasure, but the sentiment remains.”

“Royal London Hospital, Charles, if you don’t mind.”

“You got it, Chief.” Mycroft’s long-time driver just nodded and touched his cap.

“Anthea will drive your car back to the house.”

“Of course she will.” He sighed and settled in for the drive, “You don’t happen to know the identity of the moron who ran down Hannah Watson, do you?”

“I certainly do. And if you would like, I can take care of things.”

“Who is he?”

“Someone with a choke-hold influence over Hannah’s personal happiness and any hope of a blissful future she may still have left.” Mycroft handed over a thin file, “That’s just some of it, the regular file is much thicker.

“All I need is a name and a head-shot for this bastard. Who is he?” He flipped open the file and looked at the face-sheet, the paper-clipped mug-shots, and a recent booking report. Apparently, his anonymous mister had been booked a few weeks ago on a public intoxication charge and released after the magistrate laughed him out of the courtroom. Judge Morrison’s exact words to the moron’s barrister had been “Come back to me when you have a serious charge to file. I have better things to do with my time than pander to misguided drunks. If he hurts somebody, then I’ll take you seriously, but you’re wasting your time fighting a charge like this, Mister Philips.” And that had been the end of it. Well, Judge Morrison wasn’t going to be very happy to see Mister Leland back in her courtroom so quickly after he’d been returned to the streets. She had labeled him a menace to the public and a threat to himself and others, so if he did anything particularly stupid (such as run down a hard-working, heartbroken paramedic walking home after a hard, thankless day of taking care of London’s citizens), they were free to book his arse into a jail-cell and wait for her pleasure sentencing him to something appropriate.

Greg looked at the booking photo and the older mug-shots and narrowed his eyes.

“Christ, this guy has a mean record. Vandalism, public intoxication, public indecency, menacing, solicitation, and a couple domestics. Abuse, rape, assault. Assault against a minor by an adult in a position of trust. Endangerment of a minor by an adult in a position of trust.” He shook his head at the long rap-sheet. “Who is this guy?”

“That is Robert Leland. You’ve heard him spoken of, and seen his pictures before.” Mycroft twirled his brolly with one hand, his expression grim. “I can think of two people of our mutual acquaintance who would benefit greatly from his removal from the populace and the solace of knowing he was no longer in any position to trouble either of them.” The car slowed and came to a stop and Greg looked out the window. They had reached the hospital, which wasn’t that much of a surprise. He got out first, holding on to the file. He waited for Mycroft and headed into the hospital, knowing who they’d arrested tonight and wondering how fast he could make the man disappear. Part of him wanted a chance to face him down and tear him apart for all the things he’d done to Hannah that had made her think she was unlovable and didn’t deserve to be happy. The other part of him wanted Robert Leland dead before sunrise.

Before he reached the circulation desk, he grabbed his radio and got an update on their suspect. They hadn’t made it to Holding yet, and he looked at Mycroft, who nodded and dialled a number on his phone. After a few words, Mycroft looked at him.

“Where is the car?”

“Hang on.” He clicked his radio.

_“Car CW2067, where are you right now relative to the Bohn Street scene?”_

_“We’re up by Bloomsbury Street, couple of road-works and snarls slowing us down.”_

_“Roger that. I’ve got a car from MI5 heading your way.”_ He looked at Mycroft, who nodded and spoke into his phone, _“There’s going to be a bit of a hand-off with Mister Leland. Just don’t ask questions, these boys know what they’re doing. Let them do their work and I’ll handle the details.”_

_“Who is this guy, Chief?”_

_“He’s the one who took Hannah Watson’s childhood away.”_ That was all he had to say about it. Hannah was well-liked in The Met, he’d even say well-loved in some divisions, his included.

_“You got it, Chief. I’ll let you know when I’ve handed him over.”_

_“I won’t be the only one grateful, Constable Vance.”_ He signed off then and headed for the circulation desk. He asked for Watson and was directed to a waiting room. They hadn’t given her a private room yet, but that would probably happen in a bit. Mycroft peeled off to stop by the circulation desk near the waiting-room they had been sent to and Greg knew he was asking for the names of Hannah’s doctors. She would get the finest care the hospital’s A &E department could afford her tonight, no doubt of that.

A lot of patrol officers saw her during the week when she ran her training routes and she was always taking time to say hi and ask how they were, how their families were if they had any, and had even patched up a couple after a rough go with a suspect who got violent. Hannah was sweet, personable, and good at what she did. But she could be cold and efficient just as she was a kind soul. It was part of what made her so efficient and so good at what she did.

 

Greg grabbed a couple of coffees from the overused vending machine and sat down with Sherlock, who looked so very lost as he waited for someone to tell him how bad it was. He had been here since the ambulance had gotten in, and probably hadn’t moved. Greg wondered how much of a pest Sherlock had been to the staff trying to get updates on Hannah.

“Hey.” He nudged the tall detective in the shoulder as he sat down next to him, “Here, you need this.”

“Lestrade.”

“Worse than the swill they brew at the office, but it’s coffee.” He handed him one of the two cups, “How are you holding up?”

“She woke up in the ambulance, just for a little bit.” He sipped the hot, bitter coffee, “She recognized me.”

“Jesus.”

“She…said she was sorry.” He hadn’t seen Sherlock this upset since the mess with their sister, who would never trouble anyone ever again. “She asked me to stay. She said she was afraid.”

“Oh, Sherlock.”

“Greg, who did this to her?” He turned dim, wide eyes to Greg, his voice crackling. He had missed Hannah for the two weeks she’d been out of touch with him, fleeing a demon of her dark past. “I know about her step-father and every awful thing he ever did to her! I don’t care about that!”

“You run from your demons, she runs from hers.” He sighed and took a deep sip of his coffee, “But I don’t think Robert Leland will be much of a problem after tonight.”

“Oh, it was him! I knew it was him! I could only think of one person so hateful! So blatantly desperate he would attack her in public like that. None of mine would ever treat her like that, they all love her, she takes such good care of them for me.”

“Yeah, it was Leland.” Greg looked up at the sound of familiar footsteps, “Mycroft and I have taken care of things.”

“Make him disappear. Make him suffer, make him pay, then make him disappear.” This was to Mycroft, who was tucking his phone into his pocket again.

“The hand-off has been made, there was a bit of a struggle but no violence was executed on Robert Leland’s person beyond that necessary to restrain him appropriately. He is being transported to a secure location and they will contact me again once he has been dealt with.”

“Are you going to go out there?”

“Yes, I thought I might.” Mycroft tugged on his gloves, “You don’t want to come with me, do you, Sherlock?”

“I need to be here for Hannah.”

“I thought you would say that. I will be in touch as things develop.” Mycroft tapped his brolly on the linoleum and looked up at them from beneath lowered lashes, “Please give Captain Watson my deepest respects and wishes for her swift healing.”

“I will. Be careful with Leland.” Sherlock got up and the brothers regarded each other for a moment before hugging.

In the aftermath of what was being called The East Wind Incident, the brothers had been far more open with each other and with others. That was almost two years behind them, and Greg had gotten a happy ending of his own out of the madness. Sherlock had asked him to look after Mycroft, to take care of him, and he had happily done just that, waiting a few months before presenting Mycroft with a little token of his greater affections and a heartfelt question he was dreading the answer to. Mycroft had accepted and in a small, private ceremony with only a very small crowd of friends and family to witness, they had exchanged simple vows.

He walked with Mycroft back to the waiting car and stood with him under the awning of the department’s entrance.

“Thanks for this, Mycroft. Maybe this time, they’ll do right by each other and themselves.”

“My brother deserves to be happy. Being apart from Hannah Watson had broken him in ways not even Eurus could try, not even Magnussen, or Moriarty.”

“He’s never cared about someone the way he cares about her, and it’s amazing to watch. He bonded with her so quickly, I couldn’t believe they didn’t just move in together that day.”

“There were a number of things that interfered, but he was wise to give her a chance to think things over instead of demanding that she overturn her entire life just to move in with him.”

“That’s what he would have done six years ago. Watching them work together these past few months has been a pleasure, she’s so damn smart and he’s always looking forward to finding a case just interesting enough to get her attention.” Greg smiled and leaned over to kiss Mycroft, “I’ll keep an eye on them here, you deal with Leland. Let me know when he’s out of the picture.”

“Absolutely.” Mycroft smiled and turned into the kiss, “You’re good to us, Gregory. To all of us.”

“Someone’s got to be, you’re not about to be good to yourselves. Go on.” He nudged Mycroft towards the car, “Get him to the right places, Charles.”

“That’s my job, Chief. I’ll be back for you later.”

“Thanks. Safe travels, traffic’s a bit wonky tonight.” He waited until the car was gone and went back inside to find Sherlock. He was talking to a man in scrubs and a lab-coat, probably Hannah’s doctor.

“What’s the verdict?” He put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder as he came up alongside, “How’s Hannah doing?”

“They’re moving her to a private room after she’s out of imaging. Mycroft made all the arrangements for it.”

“Absolutely! He owes her more than a private room in a hospital.”

“He knows it.” Sherlock sniffled, “She’s getting a…what did you call it?”

“She’s undergoing a full-body CT-scan and we’re doing an MRI as well.”

“For a couple of broken ribs and a concussion? That’s a bit overkill, isn’t it?”

“I asked them to.” Sherlock looked at the doctor, who nodded, “I can’t risk them missing anything.”

“Does she know this?”

“Yes, and we were able to secure her consent for all subsequent testing.” The doctor, a young bloke about Sherlock’s age but not as tall, or half as handsome, smiled. “Better safe than sorry.”

“Absolutely.” Greg nodded absently. “Who gets to call the shots when she can’t, then?”

“He does.” The doctor pointed at Sherlock, “He’s her emergency contact.”

“Two weeks without a word between you and you’re her emergency contact? How long has that been a thing?” He narrowed his eyes. It must have been before the Valentine’s Day fiasco.

“Prior to tonight, her information had been updated in our system two months ago.”

“Right after you two met that first time.” He smiled, “I guess she wasn’t desperate enough to change it.”

“Her only living family is a sister who is often too drunk to know what day it is, never mind have the capacity to make an informed decision regarding Hannah’s health and well-being.” Sherlock looked very grim, “Thank you, Doctor Harrison.”

“My pleasure, Mr Holmes. I’ll be back when I know something.” The doctor nodded, “As soon as we have her settled, you can go see her. I’ll let you know where she’s going.”

“Thank you.” The two shook hands and Greg offered his hand to the man.

“Inspector.”

“Doctor.” He watched the physician leave and sank into the uncomfortable chair to wait.

-&-

It was almost two hours later that they were taken by a nurse to a private room and let in. Hannah was asleep, or at least resting, and Sherlock stood at the foot of the bed and watched her. It was so strange to see Hannah in a hospital-bed, bundled under thin blankets and wrapped in bandages. Not many of them, thank Christ, but they had wrapped a couple of layers around her head to protect the wound the attack had left her with. He could see the outline of more bandages under the gown from the broken ribs. That was more for protection than practicality or necessity. She was hooked up to a number of machines, a couple of IV lines, and oxygen by nasal cannula.

“Is she allowed to sleep? If she’s been concussed, should she be asleep?”

“She’s not sleeping.” The nurse provided, “We gave her a stimulant that won’t affect her brain activity too negatively.”

“Are you sure?”

“Stop…stop talking.”

“Hannah!” Sherlock was at Hannah’s side in a heartbeat, “You’re not okay, I know. How do you feel?”

“Not good.” She blinked at them, “Where are we?”

“The Royal London Hospital. We’ve been here for several hours.”

“Oh, right.” She sniffled and made a face, “Did you ever catch the guy who attacked me in front of a couple dozen Met personnel? It’s a special moron who’ll do that.”

“Yeah, we got ‘im alright. And he’s not going to be a problem once Mycroft’s people are done with him.”

“How did Mycroft get involved? Do I even want to know?” Hannah frowned, keeping her eyes closed.

“Don’t let her talk too much.” The nurse cautioned, “She’s had a bad night.”

“We know.” Greg turned to the woman, “We were there when she was attacked.”

“And don’t let her fall asleep.”

“The time-limit is four hours post-episode. We’ve nearly reached that threshold. You can’t keep her awake forever.” Sherlock was in a mood, and Greg didn’t blame him. 

“That’s a question to take up with Doctor Harrison.”

“Then find Doctor Harrison and I’ll do that!”

“Sherlock.” Hannah was hoarse from the O2 and the drugs in her system, “Don’t argue with the nurses. I know they’re idiots, but you can’t make their jobs too hard or I’ll never get out of here.”

“Go get Doctor Harrison.” Greg looked at the nurse, who was not entirely thrilled with them, but he did not care. As soon as she was gone and the door was closed, a lot of the tension in the room disappeared.

“Idiot.”

“Jinx.”

“Rubbish.”

“Not rubbish. Jinx! You said it at the same time I did! Jinx!”

“Alright, you two.” Greg rolled his eyes as Sherlock and Hannah bantered, “You might have suffered a concussion, but you’re in a fine mood for sparring, Captain.”

“So, what now?”

“Now we wait. For Doctor Harrison to tell us when you can sleep and for Mycroft to call us back.”

“Are either of you going to tell me why he got so involved?”

“For almost the same reason he involved himself in December. Except this time, the suspect won’t get so lucky.”

“Who was it?”

“You’ve spent years, most of your life, looking over your shoulder for the shadow of one man.” Sherlock took her hand in his and sat down, “After tonight, that man will no longer have any kind of power over you. Real or imagined.”

“Leland.” Her vitals spiked, which was only to be expected.

“Calm down, Hannah, he never laid a hand on you tonight and he never will again. For all anyone at The Met knows, he disappeared in transit to Paddington Green Police Station.”

“I knew something was wrong! I knew it, as soon as he came after me! None of the Homeless has ever bothered me before!” She covered her face with both hands, “Oh my god, I knew it was him!”

“Calm down, Hannah. You’re absolutely safe now. Mycroft will do whatever he must to ensure you never have to worry about Robert Leland ever again.” Sherlock leaned over and carefully hugged her, “It’s going to be okay.”

“No, it’s not!”

“Well, maybe not. But it is what it is, and I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“You can’t promise anything.”

“I can promise you a safe place to live, enough work to keep you busy for several years, and better company than you keep at New Belvedere House.” Sherlock sat on the bed next to her and held her close, rocking her in a gentle motion, “It’s alright, Hannah. Please don’t cry.” The machines tracking her vitals screamed and without missing a beat, Greg walked over and silenced all of them. A minute later, or less than that, the door flew open and Doctor Harrison came in with a couple of nurses. Greg blocked their way and kept them away from Hannah and Sherlock.

“She’s fine. Besides, you can’t put her under with a concussion.” He glared at the nurses, “Don’t you go anywhere near that girl.”

“What happened?”

“We told her the identity of the man who attacked her tonight. This was a personal attack, if he’d been given half a chance, he would have done worse than throw a rock at her head and break a couple of ribs.”

“Initial scans showed evidence of recent fracture in a couple of the broken ribs. What happened?”

“She was kicked in the chest by a violent patient. She works for St John’s Ambulance.” He frowned, “Or, well, she did.”

“She’ll be out of commission for quite a while between the broken ribs and the concussion.”

“How bad was it?”

“Severe Grade II, possibly Grade III, it was hard to tell.”

“Fine. Has it been four hours?” Greg stared down Doctor Harrison. The man checked the chart in his hand, checked his watch, and did some quick mental math.

“Give it another hour. And we’ll wake her every two hours after.”

“Fine. If we need anything between now and then, we’ll let you know.”

“Of course, Inspector.” Doctor Harrison was smart enough to know that the nurses wouldn’t be getting anywhere near Hannah, so he dismissed them and reset the machines himself, keeping the volume muted. If things got too bad, they would know. There was a trauma-alert override built into the machines, but until that was necessary, they didn’t need the background noise. Hannah admitted that her head hurt and she felt nauseous, but in light of her night, that was not a surprise to anyone. Offering her something mild for the pain, Doctor Harrison told them to use the call-button if anything came up.

“Oh, don’t worry. If we need you, you’ll know.” Greg held the door for the man. Once he was gone, Greg groaned and rubbed his face. “Jesus fucking Christ, what a night.”

“You don’t have to stay, Greg.”

“No, I guess I don’t.” He checked his watch and sighed, “Wonder if Charles is back yet? Guess I’ll head out, see you kids in the morning.” He checked his pockets for his badge and his belt for his gun, his keys were with A, and buttoned up his coat. Going to the bedside, he put a hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and leaned over to kiss Hannah on the forehead. “Get some sleep when you can, sweetie. Feel better sooner than later.”

“Thanks for everything, Greg.”

“Thank me when you’re out of here.” He smiled, “Think you’ll go to Baker Street?”

“Absolutely. Not that I think I’ve got much say in it.” She rolled her eyes and Sherlock made a sad sound. “Time do right.”

“Sure is. See you later, kiddo.” He squeezed Sherlock’s shoulder and left the room. Charles was somehow waiting for him outside the hospital and he sighed with relief.

“Where to, sir?” Charles asked once they were on their way.

 “Home, Charles.” Greg leaned his head back against the headrest, “Just…home.”

“Been a long night, hasn’t it?”

“That’s a word for it. Try a long couple of weeks.” He rubbed his face, knowing he needed sleep, a few square meals, a hot shower, and Lord help him he needed a good razor. The sound Charles made was sympathetic and understanding. The house was dark when he got back, not that he was surprised, and he thanked Charles for being so helpful when the cheerful driver took the keys from him and got the door open for him.

“You have a good night, Chief. Get some rest.”

“I plan to, thank you, Charles.” He looked around as Charles went back to the car, whistling to himself, and kicked the door shut with one foot. Locking up, he dumped his keys, coat, and gear by the door, kicked his shoes off, and trudged upstairs. He took a quick shower, he’d take a longer one later, dragged himself to bed, and fell asleep almost before he got there.

-&-

It was three in the morning before Mycroft Holmes returned to his home in Kensington, and he was worn out but content. He had taken care of Robert Leland in due time and fashion, ensuring the disgusting man would never have any way to hurt Hannah Watson again. Once he’d done with that business, he had gone by The Royal London Hospital to inform his brother and Watson, who had blessedly been asleep when he arrived. Sherlock had not been asleep and when he heard the news, had wept. Maybe now, perhaps they could both be happy. It wouldn’t happen overnight, of course, but there was a better chance they could have some kind of life together.

Wishing his brother the kind of peace and stability _he_ had, Mycroft let himself into a quiet, dark house.All of Gregory Lestrade’s things were scattered by the door, and he collected them, hanging his coat, keys, and belt in their places and picking up his shoes, before adding his own things. Going upstairs, he found his husband passed out on their shared bed, apparently fresh from a shower judging by the wet towel on the floor and the fact that he had fallen asleep naked. Hanging up the forgotten towel, he rearranged his slumbering husband more comfortably and warmly in the bed and joined him. The past two weeks had been hard on all of them, and perhaps now they could begin to put things to rights.

* * *

 


	8. Fàilte Dhachaigh - Welcome Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In pursuit of healing, Sherlock and Hannah travel north to the land of their ancestors seeking a peace they cannot hope to find in London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I prescribe to the belief that Sherlock, being a Holmes, has family roots somewhere in Scotland. I did some cursory research into the clans and I found Holmes is a sept of Clan Hume, which is perfect for this story. And Watson, of course, is Scottish as well. Two stubborn, hard-headed Scots the likes of Holmes & Watson are going to make for some interesting adventures. And really, it kind of explains why the two are taking for fucking ever to see what's right in front of them.

* * *

After being discharged from the hospital, Hannah Watson recovered for a month from a concussion and broken ribs. She took her convalescence not in Baker Street or at New Belvedere House, either of which she _had_ expected, but outside of London. Sherlock packed up for an extended holiday into the country. And not just the country, a completely _different_ country!

“Hang on a minute!” She stared at him as he moved their bags, “We’re going…where, precisely?”

“Scotland.”

“Scotland. Right. And we’re getting there…how? Pretty sure flying is out of the question.”

“Nope. We’ll take the train.”

“The train? Sherlock, that’s four and a half _hours_ , just to Edinburgh!”

“You’re familiar with the trip, I take it?”

“A bit!” she folded her arms, careful of her sore ribs, “In case you _forgot_ , I have family up there! Watson?”

“Oh, I know. Grandparents?”

“Yeah. And cousins. Haven’t seen ‘em in a while, maybe I should try and visit while we’re up there.”

“That might be a nice thing to do. I didn’t think you had family you still spoke to.”

“Oh, hell, plenty on Da’s side, but they’re way up there in Scotland and I’m…kind of not available. My fault, not theirs.”

“Come on, let’s get out of London first.” He smiled and kissed her on the cheek before disappearing downstairs.

When he came back, she went down with him and said goodbye to Mrs Hudson, who was just glad she had come to her senses a bit.

“You two be safe up there, hear me? Don’t get into any trouble now!”

“Don’t ask for the impossible, Mrs Hudson.” Hannah smiled at Sherlock’s patient landlady, “I’m more than half-Scot, not the best judge of keeping out of trouble.”

“Not you, especially! Just try, then.”

“That’s fair. Keep the house for us, we’ll be back in a while.” She patted the door-frame, “Goodbye, Baker Street.”

“Watson!”

“Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” She sighed and followed Sherlock to the waiting car. Mycroft had sent a car for them to take them to King’s Cross Station, where they would take the train from London to Edinburgh, at which time they would pick up a car and drive to their final destination. Wherever that ended up being.

With her body in full recovery-mode, Hannah had taken to sleeping whenever she could and so slept for much of the trip from London to Edinburgh. Once _in_ Edinburgh, it was a simple matter of obtaining a vehicle they could use to get them to their next destination. They both had good driver licenses, but Sherlock took over getting them from Edinburgh to…wherever they were actually going. He had been terribly and annoyingly tight-lipped about their final destination.

“So, where are we going?”

“Lauder. About an hour south-east of here.” Sherlock looked over at her as they joined the A720/City of Edinburgh Bypass.

“What’s in Lauder?”

“Alltendour Castle.” He grinned as he named their destination. Hannah frowned, repeating the words silently. She spoke very good Gaelic, Sherlock said she spoke better Gaelic than he did, and she knew those words.

“Allten…dour. Alltendour Castle. Otterburn Castle?” She raised an eyebrow, “Castle?”

“You’ll see.” He chuckled, “It seems a habit of ours when in need, we go home.”

“Otterburn Castle. Family seat of the Holmes sept of Clan Hume, then?”

“Something of the sort.”

“Okay, but…I’m not family.”

“No one is going to care, I promise.” He took her hand and squeezed, “I wouldn’t bring you here if I didn’t think you would be welcome.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.” She sighed and looked out the windshield.

“I never said you had to believe me, I asked you to trust me.” He corrected. She shot him a look but kept her mouth shut. He wasn’t wrong.

-&-

It was a quiet drive from Edinburgh to Alltendour Castle, taking about an hour or so, and she wasn’t sure what to expect, but the sprawling country estate plunked into the middle of Midlothian borderland was _not_ quite it. Castle was no joke, and the main house was…impressive.

“Holy shit!” She squawked, covering her mouth with both hands, “Oh my god! You weren’t _kidding_!” As soon as the car had rolled to a stop, she was out and standing on the gravel-paved drive, staring up at the place that would, for the next month or so, be home.

“Jesus Christ, I thought _we_ had a big place!” She was thinking specifically of her own clan-seat in Leven, “Uh, we’re not the only people here, are we?”

“Nope!” Sherlock grinned as he stood on the running-board of the Land Rover they had bought in Edinburgh with the understanding that the longevity of their stay in Scotland was uncertain, pointing towards the main entrance of the castle, “Not by a _long_ shot.”

“Oh, lord.” She caught sight of a small but sizable group of people coming their way. Grandparents, possibly great aunts and uncles, other relatives of assortment.

“Wow.”

“Hannah Watson, welcome to Alltendour Castle.”

“Welcome to the bloody _family_ is more like it! They’re all wearing your tartan!” The women wore beautiful hostess skirts and sashes, the men wore either phillibeg or great kilt, depending on preference, all in the Hume Ancient tartan. These were immediate descendants, next in line for succession if it ever came to it. Technically, if she should ever bother, Hannah was allowed to wear the Watson Ancient. She was a direct living descendant of the Watson line, living blood to the patriarchs, and _probably_ one of the only surviving Watsons in her branch of the clan and the family. That was depressing.

But she didn’t have a lot of time to dwell on the grim reality that her family, and her clan by extension, was small and pretty scattered these days. One of the matriarchs pulled her into a careful but firm hug, kissed her on both cheeks, proceeded to lay out a tongue-lashing the likes she hadn’t stood for since childhood all in Scots Gaelic, and then threw something around her shoulders. She wouldn’t be a bit surprised if Sherlock had spilt to his Scottish clansmen that he was coming home for a bit and bringing some company, one of the errant Watsons needed a place to lay low for a spell.

“Holmes?”

“Just…do what she tells you, it’s alright.” He looked a bit sorry, “My grandmother, Rowena McCallum.”

“Okay.” She bit her lip so she wouldn’t cry, she hadn’t been treated like this by anyone in…well, a bit longer than she wanted to recall. And with Robert Leland only a few days in his grave never to trouble her again, she was finally free to find someone to love her, scars and broken edges and all. The women of the clan were so welcoming it was almost embarrassing, the men as well, they were busy scolding Sherlock for being away for too long and getting into the worst sort of trouble. In anticipation of her visit, they had procured a stole in the Watson Ancient tartan, and probably other pieces of costume. This was what Rowena had flung about her shoulders. Hannah hadn’t had any piece of her heritage in so long, Robert had burned every piece of tartan he got hold of out of spite, and she buried her face in the soft, heather-and-peat scented wool. It was like coming home when you didn’t realize how long you’d been gone or how long you’d missed it. Rowena put an arm around her shoulders and touched her cheek.

“Come take a rest, you poor thing.” She cooed, leading Hannah by the hand towards the house, “You’ve had a bad way of it these last years or two, yeah?”

“It hasn’t been _all_ bad.”

“Terrible liar, but all Watsons can be.” One of the aunts shook her head, “Not that you’re anything but honest and faithful. You’re James Patrick’s girl Hannah.”

“Da would roll in his grave if he knew half of what I’ve been through.”

“Is that monster dead, then?”

“Yes, thank Christ. You can thank your grandson for that blessing, ma’am.” She rubbed her nose with her sleeve, “Mycroft did…something. I still don’t know what. All I know is that on paper, he disappeared during a prisoner-transfer to Paddington Green.”

“Good riddance to ‘im. Well, nothing for that, he’s dust and you’re not leaving here ‘til you’ve healed up a bit.” Hannah would have to learn names, soon as she got her head on right.

Her room, or rooms, were about the size of all of 221B with the upstairs bedroom included. Even New Belvedere House hadn’t been _this_ spacious. The bed was enormous, a hand-hewn hardwood frame with a luxurious springy mattress that was going to be very difficult to leave in the mornings, made up with fresh, clean cotton-silk sheets and warm comforters and duvets. The floors were hardwood covered with soft rugs and skins and warm underfoot. Underfloor heating. There were dressers and wardrobes and a gorgeous vanity that dated back to the mid-1800’s. There was a massive, spacious private en-suite with a sink, shower enclosure, and claw-foot bathtub. And the best part, a wood-burning fireplace that was fully functional.

-&-

After seeing that she was settled, Sherlock’s kin left Hannah in peace. The aunt who had recognized her came back with tea and biscuits and sat with her for a while. She introduced herself as Rachel McCallum, she was Rowena’s daughter and Sherlock’s aunt. Hannah found Rachel to be typically smart and her sense of humour was a bit dark, and she was very observant. It seemed to be a family trait, unusual intelligence that Hannah saw only in her own family, and then only in her cousins. Her father had been the sharpest of the lot, though, and had passed his intelligence on to his children, what they did with it was their choice. Hannah had tried to cultivate her smarts to help her in her daily life, but her sister had decided it was better to drink her troubles and sorrows away and had spent far more time than was safe or sane or practical drowning at the bottom of a bottle.

“What’s on your mind, Captain?” Rachel spoke up quietly. Hannah took a deep breath and looked at the flames in the hearth. They had settled by the fire, which burned warm and cheerful. It was perfect for a cold February afternoon.

“It’s a silly thing. But…my father died when I was ten years old, left me with my mother and older sister. It was awful, and Mum’s dishonesty was no help.”

“And after your father’s death?”

“I was so sure I would never be happy again, how _could_ I be happy again?” She looked up for a minute, “I was so desperate for something to be normal again, to be happy, that I imagined that the body they buried under Da’s headstone _wasn’t_ his. That it was someone else.”

“But it was him?” Rachel was thoughtful and curious, but respectful if there was something Hannah didn’t want to talk about.

“See, we don’t _know_ it was him. All we know is they told us he’d been killed or lost, or some awful business. They wouldn’t let me see him before they buried him, said it wasn’t right. So I made up stories that he was wandering around in Ireland, lost and out of his head, not a clue he had a family or even what his own name was.”

“And when you served in Ireland?”

“I looked for him, but I never found him.” She rubbed her hands together, “I still don’t think he’s dead.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Just a gut feeling. See, Mum and Da were having troubles before he died, which is why Harry and I just got so mad at her for marrying Robert Leland so quick.” Hannah shook her head at those awful memories, “And I remember what he looked like, I remember his face so well.”

“And?”

“And…this is mad of me, but there was this one superior officer of mine, had him a couple of times over the years, just reminded me so much of my old man. The way he acted, the way he talked. Didn’t quite look the same, of course, but it was just like Da. We got along like a bee to honeycomb, I did whatever he asked, he never steered me wrong. He wasn’t Medical Corps like me, he was in a different regiment.”

“What did he do?”

“He was Fusiliers, Royal Northumberland. Didn’t take long for him to do some pretty asking and get me made company medic to his part of the Fifth. Wherever they went, I went with them. He retired out a couple years ago, told him to get out before he got himself killed and his family had to bury him.” She shook her head, “Oh, the look on his face. I thought he’d seen a ghost.”

“What happened?”

“I asked if he had any family to miss him, he said not really. As far as he knew, they already _thought_ he was dead.”

“Oh, Hannah.” Rachel looked sad.

“I didn’t pry, it was clearly sore on him and I didn’t want to upset him. But when he retired out, he told me if I ever found myself needing a hand, to find him.”

“Did he say _where_ you could find him?”

“He talked about settling somewhere up in Scotland, said he had some family there he didn’t mind talking to if he got the nerve up to tell them he wasn’t _quite_ dead.”

“You think…”

“I don’t know.” She shook her head, “I don’t have a clue.”

“What was his name?”

“Jameson.” Hannah rubbed her nose. “Uh, Patrick Jameson.”

“Your father’s name was James Patrick Watson.”

“Yep.” She caught her breath, feeling a familiar stab of hope. It was quiet for a bit, the silence broken only by the crackle of the wood as it burned in the hearth.

“Hannah, do you believe your father is still alive?”

“I don’t know.” She looked up at Rachel, “And if he was, I wouldn’t have the first clue where to find him. If he would even want to _see_ me.”

“You underestimate the way things work around here.”  
“I haven’t been to Scotland since I was twelve.” She sniffled, “I’ve completely forgotten.”

“We’ll help you remember. Right now, love, you need to rest and recover.” Rachel just smiled, that soft, maternal smile Hannah had never really seen from her own mother, and hugged her. It was nice, to be hugged like that. Sherlock hugged her like that when she had a bad nightmare or a really long day at job-training. Sometimes she missed the easy, close intimacy she had shared with Sherlock before she had panicked and tried to run from the things that made her happiest. But that had brought them to this place and she hoped she would get a chance to try again with Sherlock.

 

It was barely past noon, but she was tired and sore and sleep sounded like a very good idea. She had been a week in the hospital before they discharged her, she had a lot of work to do to recover properly. It was a good thing Sherlock had gotten her out of London, she was more likely to relax properly _away_ from the bustle of the metropolitan city. Rachel helped her prepare for bed and asked if she needed anything.

“No, thank you, though.”

“We’re all here if you need us, love. Sleep well, I’ll send someone to check on you in a few hours.”

“Okay.” She watched Sherlock’s aunt leave and wondered why these people were so willing to treat her like family when they had truly only just met. At least, she would remember meeting such a dynamic family before, wouldn’t she?

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I named Sherlock's family seat Otterburn Castle (Alltendour is my take on "Allt Dour", which is an actual body of water that flows through the grounds of Blair Athol Distillery in Pitlochery, and literally means "the burn of the otter" in Gaelic) as a little nod to the fandom depiction of our favorite detective as a sleek little otter. Also, Ben C kinda sorta looks like one, so there is that, too.


	9. All In The Family Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of Happily Ever After gets a little bit of a push.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rachel McCallum is no fool, and there is a history between the Watsons and the Holmeses that is much, MUCH older than either of our silly idiot detectives think. Time to go shake the branches of the Watson tree a bit.  
> ::  
> We get to meet the family Hannah doesn't get to talk to as much as she would like. We meet her brothers, John and Iain, and...well, you'll see! And yes, I am aware that Iain is another form of John. But they ARE twins. John Hamish and Iain James. John Hamish, Iain James, and Hannah Jolie. Done, done, and done.

* * *

After leaving Hannah Watson to sleep off a long journey and a legitimately traumatizing experience that had occurred nearly a week before, Rachel McCallum checked her surroundings and looked at her watch. She had some research to do and a few phone-calls to make. She knew for a fact that Hannah had more family living, and in Scotland, it was just a matter of collecting names and making contact with them. Her mother found her in the study, sitting before one of the many computers, looking up the local Watsons. Hannah had grandparents, aunts and uncles, a gaggle of cousins, and three members of her immediate family. Those were the family she was most interested in.

“What are you doing in here? You’ve been in here workin’ for two hours already.” Her mother watched her, “It’s the Watson girl, isn’t it?”

“She needs family. She needs _her_ family.” Rachel narrowed her eyes, “How’s Sherlock?”

“Worried himself sick about that girl of his. Guess they had a bit of a spat back in London couple of weeks ago and didn’t talk or see each other for a spell. Felt terrible, guilty as sin, but no word for what he’d done or how to make things right.”

“Was she punishing him?” Rachel looked up. Her nephew was a bit dense, and he had a nasty habit of doing and saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. And every Holmes knew the Watsons were a passionate, hot-blooded lot. Stubborn to the last breath and unfailingly loyal.

“She was punishing herself, silly idiot. Her stepfather really did ruin her proper, in every wrong way that matters.”

“What can we do?”

“Mycroft took the first step and eliminated Leland. Now it’s up to us to set things to rights for those two.”

“They were well on their way by themselves before she panicked.” Rachel sighed, “That poor, poor girl. She’s made so much for herself, and none of it mattered.”

“What will you tell James?”

“That it’s safe for him to come out of hiding. His daughter needs him.”

“Try going through her brothers?”

“That’s what I was thinking.” Rachel was looking at a photograph that showed Hannah Watson with two very handsome blokes who looked just like her. On public record, and on private record as well, they were cousins. But concealed birth-records listed all three of them as siblings.

Hannah, John, and Iain were triplets, Hannah being the youngest and John the eldest, born between 31 March and 1 April 1971. John had been delivered at 11.53 pm on the 31st, with Iain right behind him at 11.55 pm, and Hannah coming into the world dead last at precisely midnight on the 1st after the doctors realized, belatedly, that she had never turned head-down and presented breech. After a bit of work to get her turned the right way, out she came. It was a miracle Hannah had even survived childbirth, never mind her childhood, she had come out with the umbilical cord wrapped twice around her neck and spent two months in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit fighting her own body. But the girl had thrived, despite hardship, and now…well, Rachel was willing to do what she must to give the girl something to be happy for. Printing off a couple of more recent photographs of Hannah, both from last year and the last few months, Rachel collected her coat and keys.

“Off somewhere, are you?” Her father caught her with one foot out the door.

“I have some work to do. Where’s Sherlock?”

“Down at the barn. You know how he is.”

“Hmm.” She smirked, “If he asks, you can tell him Hannah’s asleep.”

“Good, the girl needs her rest.”

“Yes, she certainly does. I’ll be back in a few hours.” Rachel smiled, kissed her father on the cheek, and left feeling very confident that she could pull this off. She knew exactly where to find James Watson and his sons. This was a risky gamble, but she had to take it. For Sherlock’s sake, for Hannah’s sake, she had to take the risk and tell James Watson everything. It wasn’t like they didn’t _know_ anything, they knew absolutely everything and more. It was a matter of setting things right with the Watsons. Maybe she couldn’t help Harriet, and Lord knew Rachel had done everything she could for that woman, but she could help Hannah and the rest of her family. So, with every file available on Hannah Watson in a work-bag, a slew of recent photographs in her pocket, and a mission, Rachel set out for the village of Humbie, which was a bit over ten miles from Lauder.

Twenty minutes later, she pulled up to the house in Humbie and watched it for a minute. She hadn’t had any reason to come out here in a while, but this wouldn’t exactly take them by surprise. It stood to be seen if the boys were home, or if it was James by his lonesome. John and Iain did not live in the family home, but they were very good about visiting. As she got out of the car and locked up, a habit adopted from years of living in urban Glasgow, the front door of the house was thrown open and the family’s dogs came tearing out.

“Hi, lads!” She greeted the carousing pair, “Hi, yes, hello. Down, and I’ll give you a treat.” Like magic, the rowdy pair of German Shepherds calmed down and sat obediently.

“You know you’re the only person who can get away with that, don’t you, Aunt Rachel?”

“Afternoon, John.” She grinned at the eldest Watson son, “Your Da home?”

“Yep. He’s in the back. What brings you up our way?” He leaned against the door, arms across his chest. “Haven’t seen you in a while.”

“Well, you’ve been out of the country for a while, son.” She chuckled, taking in the sight of John Watson in dusty fatigues. “When did you get back to town, then?”

“Few hours ago. Flew into Edinburgh.” John Watson smiled, “Thought I saw my sister on my way down.”

“You probably did. She made it in on the early train from London.”

“What’s she doing up here with Sherlock, then?”

“Trouble came knocking in London. It’s been a bad go of things for your sister.” She adjusted the strap of her bag, “But I may have some good news.”

“We could use some of that. Rumour came my way that Robert Leland was raising hell in London.”

“That’s not just a rumour, but he won’t be making any more trouble of any kind for your kin.” She ushered the dogs towards the house, “He attacked your sister a week ago while she was walking home from Stepney Green Station after work.”

“She lives in Stepney now, down at the Veterans Home.”

“Yeah. Or, she _did_. She’s living up at Baker Street now with my nephew.”

“About fucking time. She’s an idiot sometimes.” Oh, so he knew about it, too? Not surprising, there were few secrets between the Watsons. Rachel handed him the photographs.

“These are from the last couple of months. As you can see, she’s found reliable if not steady work with Sherlock.”

“Good! He needs someone to look after him, speaking of idiots.”

“Don’t we know it?” She went into the house, “How much do you know, John?”

“Mycroft called me three weeks ago, I was still in Kabul. I never said a word of it to Da, I didn’t want to break his heart like that.”

“I need your help, Johnny boy, I need your help bad.”

“Tell me what I can do.” He led the way to the kitchen. “Tea, Aunt Rachel?”

“Please. Thank you, dear.” It had never bothered her, not at all, that the Watsons all called her “Aunt Rachel” even though they were not related by any bond but love. Well, John and Iain did. She wanted to give Hannah the chance to do the very same. Over tea, she and John went over every one of Hannah’s current records and pieced together a plan, getting help from James when he wandered through looking for food.

“Ah, hello, Rachel. Thought that was you the dogs went after.” He smiled as he gave her a kiss on the cheek, “How’s things in Lauder?”

“Sherlock came down with Hannah this morning. You heard about London?”

“Some of it. If that clever nephew of yours, who runs the government and says he don’t, hasn’t taken care of things, you tell that boy to get on it right away.”

“Don’t worry about that, Da.” John flipped a page in Hannah’s records from the Veteran’s Aid Office, “Mycroft took care of that the night it happened.”

“Good. Of course, get that silly sister of yours involved and he’ll move a fucking mountain for her.” James rolled his eyes and fixed a sandwich, plating three after deciding that they all needed the fuel. Rachel smiled and knew she’d done right coming out to Humbie.

-&-

It took a week for Hannah to stop looking over her shoulder, but Sherlock kept her company and the rest of the family made it very clear that she had nothing to fear. It was nice to have people who cared, and she found herself missing her own family. She missed her brothers most of all, and wondered how they were doing, if John was home from Afghanistan or not. He should be, at this rate. Iain was in Israel covering the unrest in that part of the world, and it was anyone’s guess when he would be home. She wondered how many people knew that the twins she had grown up calling her cousins were, in fact, her brothers and she was one of triplets. She couldn’t remember when they had worked it out, but it had never really mattered or affected their relationship. Hannah had always been ridiculously close with John and Iain, realizing they were siblings and not cousins had only made them closer.

One thing she started doing, kind of without thinking about it or even realizing, was she began addressing Sherlock’s relatives as she would her own family. Rachel McCallum became Aunt Rachel _very_ quickly, Rowena McCallum told Hannah to call her Nani (apparently, Grandma Rowena had been a bit of a mouthful for two-year-old Sherlock and he’d spit out “Nani” one day, it had stuck ever since), and Rowena’s husband Alexander all but insisted that she call him whatever she felt comfortable with. She was as good as family, good as kin, she could call him whatever she wanted.

Her own grandparents were Granda, Gram, Papa, and Yam. Yam had come about for her mother’s mother when Hannah had been learning to talk and couldn’t get out “Grandma” quite right. Elizabeth Vincent had just laughed and told a flustered two-year-old Hannah that she could call her Yam if she wanted to. Her mother may have been a despicable woman, but Mallory Watson’s parents had been wonderful people to their grandchildren. And they still were, Hannah wrote to them and called on a fairly regular basis. Or she had, before returning broken from Afghanistan and getting herself lost in London.

After thinking about it, she decided to call Sherlock’s grandfather Dedu, which was a short version of the Russian “dedushka”, which translated to “grandfather”. It seemed to work for him and he was just absolutely charmed that she had decided to give him any kind of name at all and refused, on principle, to let her call him by his first name.

* * *


	10. All In The Family Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of Happily Ever After gets a little bit of a push.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to meet the family Hannah doesn't get to talk to as much as she would like. We meet her brothers, John and Iain, and...well, you'll see! And yes, I am aware that Iain is another form of John. But they ARE twins. John Hamish and Iain James. John Hamish, Iain James, and Hannah Jolie. Done, done, and done.  
> ::  
> A bit of short-lived angst here as Hannah and Sherlock work out the history that stands between them. Resolution and Happily Ever After in sight, I promise!

* * *

About two weeks after she settled in Scotland, Hannah drove up to Edinburgh with Sherlock for a routine excursion to get some shop done. It was a bit of a family affair, Aunt Rachel came along with her husband Mark, who was rather fond of Hannah and kept telling her she was a very pretty girl to be friends with his rascal nephew Sherlock. They spent several hours in Edinburgh, getting everything they needed, but it didn’t take long for Hannah to realize there was something going on. They had far too much for just their family-group.

“Aunt Rachel, what are we _doing_ with all of this?” She asked as she helped load a couple of boxes full of shop-bags into the boot of the Land Rover.

“Oh, this is for a friend of mine over in Humbie. Not that he can’t get out, but I usually get a few things done for them when I’m up here.” She smiled, “You don’t mind, do you?”

“No, I guess not.” She looked around the car at Sherlock, who was leaning against the driver's door and smiling at something on his phone. “If Holmes doesn’t mind a detour.”

“What’s that, Watson?” He raised his head and turned their way.

“Mind a quick stop in Humbie?”

“Oh, not at all! I know where we’re going!” He pocketed his phone and came around to help them load, “Is this all they need?”

“It’s all they asked for when I was up there at the start of the week.”

“Excellent. Well, that should do.” He closed up the tail-gate and looked at Hannah, almost glowing, “Come on, then.”

“What’s so interesting about Humbie?”

“Old family friends.” He patted her on the shoulder, “You grew up there, you might know them.”

“How the…do I want to know how _you_ know I grew up in Humbie?” She got in on the other side after saying goodbye to Aunt Rachel and Uncle Mark, who just told her to have a good time and not worry about a thing. Why she would be worried about visiting Humbie was a bit of a mystery. Yeah, she’d lived there as a child and some of her old neighbours were probably still there, but that didn’t mean it was going to be _awkward_.

“My family and yours have been friends longer than either of us have been alive.” Sherlock gauged traffic and merged once it was clear, “I doubt you remember. We were very young.”

“We lived in Humbie until I was ten, after Da passed. But I don’t think we ever were proper strangers.” She rubbed her jaw, “Holmes?”

“Hmm?”

“We’ve been friends longer than we’ve been together in London. A _lot_ longer. You didn’t live up here as long as I did, but I remember Mycroft.” She looked out the window at the soft rain, “I was friends with your brother first.”

“I thought your name was familiar the first time I heard it in 2013, but I couldn’t remember why and Mycroft wasn’t exactly going to tell me who you were.”

“But who was the girl you kept seeing in old family photos?” Hannah smiled, “That was a very young, very awkward me.”

“Now what?”

“Time to do what we should have done _years_ ago.” She leaned across the console and kissed him on the cheek, “I’ve been a proper moron and a terrible friend, Holmes, and I can’t believe you took me back.”

“Of course I took you back! I always will! You’re truly my best friend, Hannah, and I think it’s safe to admit that I love you. I probably always have.” He took her hand and held on.

-&-

It was quiet until they got to Humbie, but it wasn’t an uncomfortable quiet. It was the kind of quiet she’d gotten used to on the nights she’d stay over at Baker Street after a long day at work or after a difficult case, or even when she just felt like spending some time alone with Sherlock. When they stopped at their destination, she looked out the window and studied the house. It looked very familiar.

“Oh my god. Holmes?”

“Get out.”

“That’s my house!”

“I know! Out!” He laughed and unbuckled her seat-belt for her before she hurt herself trying to get out of the car, “Take it easy, Watson!”

“Oh my god! Are we still here?”

“Oh, absolutely!” He threw open the tail-gate and eyed the house, “Hasn’t really changed much since you were here last.”

“No! Thank Christ it hasn’t! Oh, Holmes!” She leaned against the car, shaking and wondering if it was okay to cry. There had always been a Watson in that house, even after Da’s death in ‘81. Relatives had kept it in the family for them, she thought she’d heard that John and Iain had acquired it for a bit recently. As she stood there, debating the risk of knocking on the door, the door flew open and a couple of furry blurs launched from the house. German Shepherds. Her family had always kept dogs, the breeds had varied over the years, and she recalled her brother John owning a pair of Shepherds. Astor and Moby, pups raised from near birth by her brother.

“Astor!” She patted her shoulders, “Mobs! Come here, you rascals! Hi, boys!” Recognizing her in a heartbeat, the dogs were all over her and she cried into Moby’s fur.

“Oh, Jesus, hello, sweet boys! I’m so glad to see you!”

“Oh, nice to know you’re happier to see the _dogs_!”

“John.” She looked up over Moby’s shoulder at her brother, who stood on the drive, grinning like a fool, “Hi.”

“About bloody _time_ you made it home, Hannah.”

“Oh, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t you dare. What Leland did to you was beyond forgiveness and beyond understanding. You’re a strong woman, Hannah Watson.” He came to the car and pushed the dogs out of the way, hugging her tight, “You’re bloody fortunate the Holmes brothers got their hands on you.”

“Found me again, didn’t they?”

“Sure did.” He kissed her on the cheek, “Don’t cry, love, it’s okay now. It’s alright.”

“It’s _not_ okay, John.”

“Maybe not, but it’s all we have.” He rubbed the back of her neck, “Don’t cry, you’ll make yourself sick again. And Da would skin us both if he thought you weren’t looking after yourself.” Hannah went very still and processed what she’d just heard her brother say.

“John…”

“You’re a damn smart girl, you knew.”

“Not dead?”

“Not dead. Came a bit too close, but…not dead.”

“Oh, God.” She covered her face with both hands, “Does Holmes know?”

“Doubt it. Aunt Rachel did, of course, she probably knew right away.”

“The Holmeses will keep a secret for a good cause. If Mum or Robert had known he was alive, it would be…”

“Don’t think about it. Come on inside.” He looked over at Sherlock, “Need a hand, Holmes?”

“If you’ve got a spare one.”

“Sure do. Come on, Hannah.” He took one of the boxes and handed another one to Hannah. The house looked very much as it had in her childhood, a few things were different, but the feel was there. It smelled musty and a bit damp, there was a fire burning in the hearth, so the house was warm. Coats hung on hooks by the front door, a few pairs of well-worn Wellingtons sat under the bench.

Going to the kitchen, she helped unpack the things they’d brought from Edinburgh. As she bundled the shop-bags under the skink, Hannah looked out to the back of the house. She saw the small shed where Da had kept a workshop, the doors stood propped open. The little stove would be warming the place for sure on a day like this one, and she remembered hours and hours wasted playing under the bench while Da worked on…whatever it was that had his fancy at the moment. Usually carpentry. He had been very good with his hands, she remembered, making and repairing furniture for friends and family, creating beautiful figurines for the children. She had a collection that had only survived her late childhood because she had given them all to her brothers when her mother uprooted the family and moved them to London when she was eleven. She leaned against the open door of the main house and debated crossing the yard.

“What are you looking at?” Sherlock had noticed her diverted focus.

“Watching Da’s old workshop. Used to spend _hours_ out there, no matter the weather, playing under that old work-bench. I built little cities out of scrap-wood and glue and nails, made up stories.” She had built things out of scraps, and Da had started teaching her wood-carving. She had kept up the practice for a long time, taking it to the Army with her, using a multi-tool knife and whatever scrap of wood she could get her hands on.

“I found this, the other day. I thought it was a strange little trinket.” He handed her something, “I couldn’t for the life of me think of what it was supposed to be or where I might have gotten it. I’ve had it since I was a lad.”

“What _is_ this? What a funny little thing!” She took the little bit of wood, obviously a scrap from a larger project. She turned the object over in her hands, “Not very well made, was it?”

“Not quite the skill of a more experienced carpenter, but there was love put into the effort of making it.” He smiled at her, “I think it was supposed to be a duck.”

“That does not look like a duck to me! What on earth?” She giggled, “Oh, lord, did _I_ make this?”

“The last Christmas you lived up here. Mycroft has one just like it, he never got rid of it.”

“You _kept_ them!” Hannah looked from the bizarre little carving, clearly a child’s work, to Sherlock, “All these years, you _kept_ them!”

“This came with me when I travelled the world taking down Moriarty’s networks, razing his empire to ashes. I thought I’d lost it a time or two, but it never left my side.”

“Oh, Sherlock.” She only called him by his first name very rarely. And he almost _never_ called her Hannah. Using their last names with each other was a form of affectionate respect, first names came out for rare occasions. Like the hospital. Hannah couldn’t believe that he still had her silly little carving, or that it had been so many places. Or, that it meant so _much_ to him that when he went off to make the world a safer place, he took it with him. At the time he’d begun his work dismantling a madman’s empire, they had barely had a thing to do with each other and hadn’t put a thought to long-lost childhood friends in too long. It had taken a crippling injury to send Hannah home to London, anywhere near to Sherlock, and she had never once thought to get back in touch with him, despite having saved his life a few times in the very recent past. She had simply trusted that he would have no knowledge or recall of who had helped him in his times of deepest need, despite knowing that it wasn’t quite true.

“Jesus Christ, what an idiot I am.” She muttered, “Why do you even put _up_ with me?”

“Because you put up with _me_.” He looked out across the yard, “You should go out there, see him, let him see you, tell him if he doesn’t know.”

“He knows. I guarantee you he knows.”

“Then tell him it’s over.”

“Will you come with me? I’m not…” She stopped herself from saying she couldn’t do it alone. She didn’t want to do it at all. Sherlock took her hand and pulled her out of the house and across the yard. The workshop was warm and well-lit, smelling of pine and sawdust and woodsmoke. Hannah stood in the doorway, suddenly a child again waiting for her father to invite her in. She had always been welcome to come and go as she liked, but she had always loved it when he told her to come in and join him.

The man at the work-bench was the same she remembered from childhood memories, just a little changed with the passage of time, the advance of age and the troubles of an unkind world that had carved their stories into his skin in the form of fine lines and bold scars. His hair wasn’t as fair as it had been when she had been a child, being a rather handsome silvery grey now, close to the shade of Greg Lestrade’s hair but lighter than that still. His back wasn’t quite as straight, his shoulders slightly sloped, but that instilled posture would always be there. After all, he’d only retired from the Army three years ago. His hands were still steady and sure and capable. This was a man who had taught her everything she knew about so many things, from carving wood to firing a weapon, and he would teach her still more if she cared to pay attention. She didn’t say anything, just stood and observed. He knew they were there, she couldn’t say how she knew he knew, but…he did. He knew. She saw a shift in his posture, watched his hands. There it was, a subtle field-signal from her days overseas.  A familiar sequence of hand-signals: ^“You. Enter.”^ 

^“You. Enter. Two.”^ When she didn’t move right away, he repeated the sequence. Of course he knew Sherlock was there. Nodding, she stepped into the small space that had always seemed bigger when she was a child. It wasn’t terribly cramped, but it was smaller now that she was an adult. Sherlock pulled the door closed to conserve heat and she approached the bench, touching the familiar work-surface and handling the tools set to the side until he needed them, putting them right back where she found them.

She had played in this workshop, had practically grown up in here. Relatives had shared stories, often, of how her father would bring her out here from her very earliest days in this world, setting her nearby to his workspace in a little basket, usually near the stove to keep warm when the weather was disagreeable. People who knew James Watson knew his gifts were numerous and his skills varied, but so very few understood just how skilled he was with a block of wood and a set of carving tools. Without really stopping what he was doing, he took something from a shelf above the bench and slid it across the dusty surface.

“Your brothers found those, thought you might want them back.” He glanced at her sidelong, smiled, and went back to what he was doing. Hannah knew what it was before she picked up the small bundle. It was wrapped in canvas and leather, about as long as her hand from wrist to the tip of her middle finger.

“What is it?” Sherlock looked over her shoulder as she pulled on one end of the leather cord.

“My old tool-kit.” She unwrapped and unrolled the canvas and looked at the carving tools. Her old set, a small but sufficient miniature set of an adult’s tools, was tucked into the wrapping.

“Why are there two sets?”

“These are the tools I used when I was little. John gave me this set five years ago for Christmas.” She bundled the child’s tools and set them on the shelf for safe-keeping and went to the scrap box.

“What are you doing?”

"You’ll see.” She pushed the lid up and rummaged through the pieces after pulling on a pair of thick gloves. From the bench, she heard a soft, amused chuckle. She had always liked carving from scraps and rarely carved from a fresh block. The scrapped pieces had more character, she said, and made it more fun to figure out what they were going to be. Uncle More liked to say that all she had to do was look at a piece of scrap-wood that she found suitable and she could just _see_ what it would be. After tossing aside a few pieces that didn’t suit her this time, but could use later for something, she found a rather sizable piece that was irregular in shape but about six inches across and six inches in length. She almost tossed it aside, but something stopped her. She set it aside on the lip of the scrap-box and turned, holding the lid up.

“Need something, love?” Her observant father had noticed her hesitation.

“The pad?”

“Find something?”

“Think so.”

“Can you pass over that notebook, son?” Her father tipped his head to the battered notebook sitting on the bench near him, “And you might want to get her a tape.”

“Yes, sir.” Sherlock obediently collected the notebook and found a tape, handing both to Hannah. She let the bin close as she measured the piece of wood she had picked out, getting precise dimensions. She wrote them down on a clean page and drummed her fingers on the bench.

“If you need to think about this one, go get inside. Sit down and think about it with a cuppa.”

“Of course you can read my mind.” She smiled and packed up her things, “Thanks, Da.”

“Will you tell me someday what makes your heart so sick?”

“You know what it was.” She leaned over and kissed him on the cheek, “But he won’t trouble the Watsons anymore. He’ll haunt us in dreams only and in the dark voices in my head.”

“Find something to bring light to your darkness, love, if anyone in the family deserves to be happy. I gave up on that sister of yours years ago, can’t do a thing to help someone who can’t help themselves.” He smiled sadly, “No one should ever suffer like you have, my love. Please heal.”

“It’s why I’m _here_ , Da. It’s the only reason I’m here.” She hugged her father as tight as she could, wondering why she wasn’t more surprised to find him alive and figured that she was only so calm because she had _known_. Deep in her heart, she had always known he was alive somewhere, and that if fate was kind to her for once, she would see him again. And she had seen him, many, many times.

 

Taking her haul from the workshop back to the main house, Hannah settled in the sitting-room by the fireplace and curled up in an armchair, laying the notebook open across her lap. Sherlock followed her in and collected her coat, hanging it by the door with the other coats, she didn’t miss him putting up his Belstaff on the same set of hooks. She smiled and bent her head to the page. She had seen something special in the odd piece of scrap-wood, which was split in a few places but sound regardless. Balancing the scrap on her knee, she studied it and started drawing what she saw in her head. She only stopped when she was aware of a cup being set down on the side-table and looked up at Sherlock, who stood behind her chair, looking over her shoulder.

“Is this what you do?”

“I haven’t done it in years. I miss it.”

“I didn’t know you could draw.” He reached over her shoulder and smoothed the corner of the page, “This is the third page you’ve filled, haven’t you worked out the design yet?”

“I’m figuring out what size I want it to be.”

“Hmm.” He smiled and leaned over, kissing her on the cheek, “You’re a brilliant girl, you’ll figure something out. What are you trying to make of it?”

“Hmm?”

“When you looked at it like that, what did you see?”

“One of these.” She showed him her last complete sketch, “You’ve seen one of these before.”

“Not usually out of wood. Metal, like silver or gold, or surgical steel. I saw one in copper once when I was a lad. I thought it was beautiful.” He touched the lines of the sketch, “You saw a Luckenbooth. I wonder why?”

“Not a clue what to tell you.” She picked up the cup of tea and took a sip. She looked at the sketch and thought maybe going smaller, maybe an inch or two. She had drawn out a “Queen Mary” Luckenbooth, which was both simple and elegant, and where the tines of the smaller, second heart met she had put a thistle. The whole inner heart was fashioned as a thistle, in fact. Her own twist on a classic, elegant design.

“Do you think you can do that with wood?”

“Watch me.” She set her cup down picked up the carpenter’s pencil and the piece of wood. The first thing she did was lay down marks where she wanted the sizing-cuts to be made, cuts to remove the corners and extra wood. She took the lot back to the workshop when she had the cut-lines marked and gave the scrap to her father to cut for her while she scanned her sketch into the graphing program on the computer. Making it the right size, she printed it out and laid it down on the cut wood with a piece of transfer paper and a clean pencil. Then she made a few more cuts and smoothed the edges. She cut the outer edges of the heart and the blocked-off bit where the crown would go leaving her to hollow the inner lines and do the detail work by hand.

She spent several hours in the workshop with her father, just like old times, working on her little Luckenbooth. It got dark, the temperature plummeted, and John and Sherlock came out to try and coax them inside for dinner. But old habit died hard and they stayed out. Sherlock returned ten minutes later with covered plates and begged them to eat.

“Thought it was my job to remind _you_ to eat, wasn’t it?” Hannah smiled at him as he set one of the plates down next to her.

“We seem to have switched roles. Please eat something? You need it to recover.”

“I will. Don’t worry about me.” She leaned her head back for a kiss, “I guess you get along with my brother alright.”

“He’s just like you, of course I do.”

“Cheeky bastard.” She smacked him on the cheek, “Be nice, Sherlock.”

“You know, you’ve started using my first name more since we came up here. Why?”

“Same reason you’ve started using _mine_.” She shrugged and blew dust from her Luckenbooth. “This place is something special.”

“You’ve got that right. So are the people.” He left her again and she realized, only after he was gone, that he had never once looked at or asked after her project. She had never made a secret of what she was doing, but he seemed content to know _what_ it was on paper, but not beyond that in finished form. Shrugging, she took a break to eat. It was nothing special, simple sandwiches with crisps and coffee, but it was good enough.

“All these years later, and you are still in love with that Holmes boy.” Her father smiled over the rim of his coffee-cup, “How long were you two out of touch?”

“From ‘98 until 2012, and then we lost touch again until last December.” Hannah looked at the little wooden Luckenbooth she was working on that would be 3-5/8"long by 3-1/8"wide when she was done with it. She was giving it to Sherlock to carry in his pocket the way he had carried that silly little duck. Time to do right and follow her heart for once. It was like Greg and Colonel Graham and Mycroft, even Victor and Evan, and Angelo had been telling them for months, at the very least for weeks: “You deserve to be happy. Don’t miss your chance because you were afraid of losing.” Hannah finished eating and stacked her dishes. With most of the intense work done, it was time for sanding, detail work, and varnishing. She found her small tools, they were perfect for the delicate detail-work she had left, and decided it was a good idea to go back to the house. Warmer, for one, and she could do detail-work in a comfortable chair. The boys had found a match and were having a grand time booing bad plays, bad calls, and ref favouritism. Sherlock was delighting John deducing the players and refs, and especially the studio-announcers.

“Having a good time, boys?” Hannah chuckled.

“Absolutely! Hannah, you’re a moron. You know that, yeah?”

“That’s the consensus these days, get in line.” She rolled her eyes at her brother, “But if I’m a moron, so’s _that_ one. He’s worse than I ever was.”

“You’re both a pair of proper idiots, and that’s going to change!”

“Good luck with _that_.”

“Oh, come on, Hannah, be nice to the lad. He means well.” Sherlock giggled. He fucking _giggled_. Hannah snorted and sat down, splitting her attention between the match and the boys. She eventually settled on a pillow by Sherlock’s feet, back against the couch, head against his knee, carefully chipping away bits of wood from the thistle and crown of her Luckenbooth. She was careful with the details, and liked the way it looked. It was a bit rough, but considering it was her first serious piece in two years, it looked pretty good. Finally, content that it was about as good as it would ever be, she sanded the rough edges and details, blew away the dust, and looked at it.

“Are you _done_?”

“Not yet, I still have to put a lacquer on it.” She wrapped it in a piece of oilcloth and tapped Sherlock on the calf, she needed to get up. He moved and she shoved to her feet, using him as a brace. “Ta. Be right back.”

“Not going anywhere.” He muttered, more or less addressing his beer-bottle. She wasn’t sure how much he’d had to drink, but neither of them was in a condition to drive back to Lauder tonight. Putting everything away in the workshop, she returned to the house and sat on the couch next to Sherlock.

 

After the match was over, Arsenal beating Chelsea, Hannah collected empty bottles, disposed of them in the kitchen, and decided it was a good time to get to bed. Going down the hall with Sherlock in tow, she found her old bedroom. Things had obviously changed, but not by much. A small double bed was pushed against one wall, barely enough room for two grown adults but who was complaining, this room was clearly home to the much younger generations whenever they stayed over going by the brightly-coloured bedding. The comforter and duvet were a very acceptable white, but the sheet-set was decidedly less grown-up. There were very clear signs that this had once been her room, not as obvious in the dark, but she picked up a faded, ratty-looking stuffed animal perched on the pillows.

“I’ll be damned.” She smiled and rubbed the moth-bitten ears of the toy, a well-loved fox that was missing an eye. “You survived too, Cheese?”

“What is that?”

“This is Cheese.” She smiled and held the toy out to Sherlock, “I carried him around for years. He was my favourite toy.”

“He seems rather worn out, doesn’t he?”

“Oh, he’s been through generations of children, never mind some international travel.” She sat down on the bed and took off her boots and socks, quick to add her trousers, jumper, and button-down to the pile of clothes.

“Did you take him with you in the Army?”

“Harry sent him to me in a care-package once, said if she hadn’t he’d have been burned.”

“Your mother and step-father were very vindictive, spiteful people, weren’t they?”

“That’s a word for it. But Cheese survived that, he snuck home once with John and I just had to hope he made it somewhere safe.” She shrugged and got under the covers, “We had adventures, Cheese and I. Played pirates and such.”

“Pirates?” That got his attention. She smiled in the dark as he turned off the lamp. Sherlock, if she remembered correctly, _loved_ pirates. Somewhere in some dusty family archive, she was pretty sure there were pictures of her and Sherlock playing pirates together. She wouldn’t be at all surprised if her old costumes were still in storage somewhere.

“If I’m not mistaken, you adored pirates as a child. Still might as an adult, but what would I know about that?” She chuckled and squeaked when he put both arms around her and yanked her backwards until her back hit his chest. He was careful of her broken ribs, but it didn’t hurt that much.

“You played _pirates_?”

“Soldiers and pirates, precisely. I dragged my brothers _and_ yours into the fun, you were there, too, I think.”

“Two rival pirates and the law-abiding navy officers sent to bring them to justice.” His breath was warm against her ear, “I’d forgotten.”

“I think we both had, Sherlock.” She sighed, thinking of her Luckenbooth. As soon as it was ready, she would give it to him to keep in his pocket wherever he went. Hannah closed her eyes, asleep in moments as she listened to Sherlock breathe. For the first time in weeks, maybe a month, Hannah slept well and without dreams or nightmares to trouble her.

-&-

After spending the night in the same bed with Sherlock, something they did regularly, Hannah was up at her usual time and going about her day. Dressing warmly, she fixed herself a cup of coffee and went out to the workshop. It didn’t take long to get the fire going and she finished the Luckenbooth. Using tinted lacquer, she painted the charm red and gold. After letting it dry by the fire, she coated it in a clear lacquer and laid it to dry again. It was gone three in the afternoon before it was finished. After ensuring that it was completely dry, she wrapped it in a small box. She was sitting on the fence that marked the boundary of her family’s property, looking out across the moors, when she heard familiar footsteps behind her. It was still very foggy and cold, but she didn’t feel it.

“Have they missed us at the castle?”

“They’ve asked.”

“Figured they would eventually. After all, we didn’t come back last night.” She smiled, turning the box over in her hands.

“What’s that, then?” He touched the box.

“It’s for you.” She handed it to him and watched him turn it over, studying it, trying to deduce the gift inside. Giving him something with this kind of symbolism was a huge step for her, for both of them, but it was about fucking time she took control of her own destiny and did something about making things right between them. She wasn’t expecting anything in return, of course, but she wanted him to have something she had made for him, something new and significant. Curiosity won out and he untied the thin white ribbon, sliding a fingertip under the blue Mylar paper to break the cello-tape seal without tearing the paper. Hannah bit her lip as he bundled the paper into a pocket and studied the white box before pulling off the lid and unfolding the cotton-fluff batting she had used to protect the Luckenbooth. When he saw the finished Luckenbooth, his eyes widened. He had watched her make it, had watched her carve it, but she had never told him what it was for.

“Oh my god. Hannah!”

“You know what this is for, don’t you? Why people give these as gifts?”

“Oh, Hannah. I don’t…” He trailed off as he lifted the carving and held it, weighing it in his hand, “I don’t deserve this.”

“You deserve this and everything I can offer.” She curled his fingers around the charm, “I haven’t been here for you when you’ve needed someone, Sherlock, I’ve been an awful friend. I want to change that. And that change starts right now.”

“You’ve changed. In less than a week, you’ve…you’re a different person.” He looked at her, so much in his eyes that he couldn’t put into words.

“My _life_ has changed, Holmes, in violent and traumatizing ways. I was discharged from the Army two years ago, I suffered in London for another year, existing but without friends or direction. Then I met _you_ , and my life changed again.” Hannah shook her head, wondering at how things had turned out, “I had a chance to help myself, and make something of myself and for myself. For two months, I had a purpose again and direction. I had friends I wanted to spend time with, two reliable jobs, and a best friend who would have done anything for me. Then I screwed up.” She took a deep breath and felt him shift, but she put a hand up before he could speak.

“Don’t. I’m not done. Let me talk.”

“Okay.” He sighed and leaned against the fence beside her, keeping her company.

“I screwed up, very badly. I let a mean little voice get into protected places and I ran from everything that made me happy.” She looked out at the foggy landscape beyond them, knowing she had to put this out before it ate her alive, “I punished the wrong person for something he had no control over, convincing myself that it was for his good and my own, that he couldn’t possibly want someone as broken and careless as me. And then my life changed _again_.”

“Watson.”

“I’m _so_ sorry, Sherlock Holmes. You deserve so much better, especially from me. I shouldn’t have left you like that, not after everything you did for me. I’m not asking for anything from you, but for your forgiveness. If you have it in your broken heart to forgive a blundering, heartsick idiot like me, that’s all I need. I won’t ask for more than that. I’ll find my way in another city if that’s what needs to happen.”

“No! No, don’t you dare!” He grabbed her by the arm, fingers tight around her bicep, she could feel the grip through her layers, “No, Hannah! Don’t you ever leave me! Do you understand how _much_ you mean to me?” He pulled until she turned and faced him on the fence, standing between her legs. They were nearly level with her sitting on the fence like she was, and he held her still with one hand against her face.

“Hannah, my god, why did you _ever_ think I didn’t want you? Why did I ever _let_ you think that?”

“You didn’t know. I never said.”

“You told me everything! I knew everything! I missed that! If anyone between us was an idiot, it was _me_!” He leaned her head back, “Hannah, don’t. Leave. Me. Don’t ever leave me again. What can I do to make you stay? How can I make you stay with me?”

“At the very least, you carry a piece of me with you always.” She put the Luckenbooth in his coat-pocket, “A broken heart belongs to you, a small piece of it in your pocket always. Wherever you are, if I’m there or not, that’s me.”

“That’s not good enough. I can’t imagine a life without you anymore, Hannah.” He shook his head, “The week I spent in the hospital at your side was terrifying. I’ve _been_ in hospitals plenty myself, it’s a sickening experience in the worst ways, but being on the other side of it is so much worse.”

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I’m sorry I made you hurt like that.”

“I _love_ you, Hannah, I’m fairly certain I always have in some way. You are the most important person in my life, and that’s something. I don’t care about people, I don’t do emotional attachments. But you took everything that made sense in my world and turned it on its head. You put a match to it and burned everything. And I _let_ you.” He leaned in until their foreheads touched, “You did what no one else could. You did what not even Jim Moriarty could get done, what my sister tried and failed to accomplish.”

“Sherlock.”

“You took this jaded, careless heart, and burned it. I _let_ you do it, I wanted you to do it. Two weeks without you was the most awful thing I’ve ever done, I would have rather gone back to Serbia than face another day without you.” He took her hand in his and pressed it against his chest, through several layers of clothing she could feel his heart beating far too fast. He was shaking, with cold, with grief, with…hope. “So many people in our lives called me a blundering moron, told me to find a way and fix this before I lost you forever. And then…”

“Sherlock. Oh, love, don’t…” She pulled him until they were flush and his head dropped to her shoulder. Tears flowed freely and she rocked him. “My god, Sherlock Holmes. I’m sorry.”

“Are we both sorry?”

“For the same things.” She stroked the back of his neck, “I love you, you silly idiot. I think I always have and I plan to until there’s nothing left of this world but dust and memories.” As they sat there, reconciled and ready to face whatever future lay ahead of them properly, _together_ , they didn’t see the people gathered by the house.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I messed up on the math. Hannah was ten-years-old in 1981, if she was born in 1971. Whoops.


	11. Let's Get Married

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another step towards an inevitable Happily Ever After.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's in town, and he's being a very good big brother.  
> ::  
> Sherlock doesn't really ask, he just kind of...assumes. And he's not wrong about assuming anything, much to Hannah's amusement. Smart bastard. Of course she's going to say yes. She'd be an idiot not to! And the days of being a willfully stubborn idiot are, momentarily, far behind her.

* * *

When Hannah Watson and Sherlock Holmes had made their way north to Scotland, seeking refuge and healing in their homeland, Mycroft Holmes hadn’t ever expected to make a trip of his own. But two separate people had called him from London on behalf of the Baker Street detectives. His aunt, Rachel McCallum, had called first to clarify that Robert Leland was no longer amongst the living souls of London (he was not, Mycroft could personally attest to that); James Watson had called next, with a strange but understandable request, to which he had a ready answer. Two months earlier, when Hannah and his brother had reconnected over a series of unrelated cases, Mycroft had quickly made up papers in their names and, at different times, had them signed _by_ Sherlock and Hannah. He had never told them what the papers were for, knowing it was better to do this without their explicit knowledge and handle any potential fall-out when it happened. Once all proper papers were on file, a certificate had been written up in their names and put in the file and copied to the proper offices in Edinburgh. He had those papers with him now as he watched Sherlock and Hannah reconcile in the back garden of the Watson house in Humbie.

He hadn’t been to this house in decades and had been selfishly pleased to see it had changed very little from the way he remembered it as a child. A few things had changed, naturally, and it seemed a bit smaller in some places than he recalled from memory, but it was the memories he _had_ of this place that mattered. And that he had them at all.

“What did she give him?”

“A wooden Luckenbooth she spent almost two whole days on. It’s a rather lovely piece, really, she was so careful with making it.” James shook his head, “Those two are a right pair of idiots.”

“Yes, they have been. Perhaps that’s to be amended properly, for once.”

“If we’ve got any say in things, you’re damn straight that’ll be put right!” Hannah’s oldest brother John, like her in so many ways and different in so many others, made a face, “I love them both, it’s hard to watch them fight what we all know is the right thing to do.”

“I’d say they’re done fighting.” That was from Gregory Lestrade, who had accompanied Mycroft to Scotland without question or any warning beyond showing up at the airfield with a bag packed and one question: “When do we leave and where are we going?” He blamed Anthea for tattling on him but knew her heart was in the right place.

“So, who gets to plan _that_ wedding?” John asked, grinning.

“Leave that to Aunt Rachel.” He said it without thinking, “She’s been planning for years.”

“Really?”

“She has binders full of ideas and every piece of information she could possibly want or need on those two.” He nodded to the ignorant couple who still hadn’t noticed them. “Including Hannah’s dress-size and Sherlock’s exact measurements for a kilt.”

“Now, that’s a sight I’d pay to see.” James snickered, “Sherlock Holmes in a kilt. He’s got the right build for it, lucky bastard.”

“My brother did get the lion’s share in good looks and genetics, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, you shut up!” Gregory smacked him on the shoulder, “You’re too damn skinny to talk like that, and I know you’ve gotten that lecture from Hannah before! Don’t you dare think about it!” The Watsons chuckled and Mycroft just offered a conciliatory kiss to his husband. No, he wasn’t as slim or half as attractive as his younger brother, and he never would be. And yet, he was taller and smarter still. And he had to reassure himself that he wouldn’t be in the position of a happily married man if Gregory’s affections hadn’t been honest. How many times had he pushed Gregory away and how many times had the man come back to him, stayed at his side through innumerable troubles and grievances? Hannah Watson was a perfect match for his brother, and all he wished was a happy future for them both. Giving a copy of the papers that all but declared Hannah Watson and Sherlock Holmes married to the Watsons, Mycroft took Gregory returned to Alltendour Castle. Hannah and Sherlock would not be long behind them, he suspected.

-&-

A week after she gave Sherlock the hand-carved Luckenbooth, Hannah woke up one morning in her rooms in Alltendour Castle to the soft sound of a violin. It was live-play, she judged by the timbre and clarity, and close by. She smiled and rolled onto her back. The bed beside her was, of course, empty now, but she knew where he was. He had left something on his pillow, though, her hand brushed against it. Traditionally, a rose was left upon the pillow as a token, but Sherlock wasn’t like other men, and Hannah was not interested in being a thing like other women. She rolled onto her side and carefully picked up the single thistle laid on the pillow. There was something tied to the stem, and she tugged on the string. A small piece of cardstock had been tied to the stem, on it were a few words. She read them to herself. Written in Gaelic, a shared language between them, more a statement than a proper question.

/“Let’s get married.”/ She repeated them and giggled. Really? He couldn’t even ask the proper question? She’d roped a one-of-a-kind for sure. Leaving the thistle on her bedside table, Hannah grabbed a pair of pyjama bottoms and a hoodie and padded out to the sitting-room. She found him by the fireplace, which contained a crackling blaze, and leaned against the chair, watching him. He finished playing, it was a new piece, and set down the violin. She folded her arms against her chest, smiling. It was Sherlock as she’d gotten used to seeing him in the mornings: dressed in pyjama bottoms, tee-shirt turned inside-out (unless he was wearing one of her old Army tee-shirts, which fit him for some reason, those were always worn right-side-out), and a dressing-gown.

“Not even a proper question?”

“Do you really think it’s _necessary_? After all this time?” He looked over his shoulder at her, shy and open. She smiled and went around to him. She wasn’t going to say no.

“Of course not, but there are those who would question.”

“And they don’t matter.” He looked her over, studying every bit of her he could see. “Give me your answer?”

“Absolutely! Why would I say no? After all the madness and idiotic missteps, why the _hell_ would I say no?” She leaned up and kissed him on the corner of the mouth, “I don't suppose we have to concern ourselves with practical matters like stating our intentions at the register office?”

“Mycroft did that for us. Both here, and in London.”

“Sneaky bastard.” She muttered, “How long has it been, then?”

“Two months in London, shortly after we met in Whitechapel.” Sherlock grinned, “And two months in Edinburgh.”

“Clever bastard he is.” She wrinkled her nose, “Well, then, I suppose we had better get on with it?” Sherlock just smiled and took her back to the bedroom. They took showers and got dressed, and he took her up to Edinburgh. Mycroft had given them a folder with all the paperwork they needed to hand to the registrar in Edinburgh to be filled out and filed. Notice had already been given, the rest was up to them. They were right on the hairy edge of too late, but notice had already been given, the date had been set, and all they were really doing was confirming the chosen date and submitting the proper paperwork. Once in Edinburgh, they made their way to the New Register Office and spent two hours filling out and filing paperwork with the proper authorities. Mycroft had handled the notice-filing two months ago, she seemed to remember some business taking Mycroft out of London shortly after she reconnected with Sherlock the first time. It wasn’t unusual for him to travel for business on a whim, so she hadn’t thought much of it at the time.

After finishing their business at the Register Office, which included stating their intention to marry in a handfasting ceremony at the end of the month, they ventured out into Edinburgh proper and Sherlock took her ring-shopping. Their fathers had stepped in as witnesses back at the start, and they were considering keeping the guest list short. Her father and siblings were invited, by default; his parents and brother were, of course, going to be there, it was Mycroft’s subtle hard work that had made it all happen legally; and because Mycroft was invited, Greg Lestrade would be there. There were, of course, cousins, aunts, and uncles to consider; mutual friends like Angelo, and Colonel Graham, and she debated asking Sherlock if he wanted to invite Victor Trevor and Jack Evans. Mrs Hudson, of course, was invited, and maybe Molly Hooper and _her_ girlfriend. Not quite a small wedding, but certainly an intimate one.

Hannah wasn’t surprised that they couldn’t find anything on their first trip, but she wasn’t disappointed. If _anyone_ could find the perfect ring, it was Sherlock Holmes. He knew her tastes and she trusted him to choose wisely. She had the feeling that what they were looking for wasn’t to be found in a jewellery store, but that remained to be seen.

* * *

 


	12. When In Glasgow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A bit of Watson family drama to keep things interesting. No one gets hurt, but there are misunderstandings and reconciliation. And Sherlock proves that he can be just as kind to someone as his saintly Watson.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We get to meet Harry Watson. Writing her was...interesting. But I thought the interactions between her and Sherlock were a suitable challenge, and Sherlock gets to play nice with his future sister-in-law.

* * *

As time wasted to within two weeks of the wedding-day, Sherlock Holmes started to worry. Everything was on schedule and going smoothly, but there was one important element missing and it _bothered_ him. Hannah Watson, bless her soul, was patient as ever as his mood got worse and worse. He suspected she knew what the problem was, she had that knowing look in her eye. Rings. A traditional, visible symbol of what was supposed to be a life-long promise to love and cherish the person you had given the ring to. 

He had foolishly asked her to marry him, on a whim, without a ring to give her. She had never said anything, never made him feel inadequate for it. Rings were, realistically, a bit impractical for the likes of Hannah, but he still…it was the principle of the thing. He _wanted_ the world to know, and to know that she didn’t belong to just anyone. And he felt guilty. She had given him a lovely gift, not quite an engagement gift but it might as well have been. A small, hand-carved Queen Mary Luckenbooth that she had created over the course of two days from a piece of scrap-wood she found in her father’s workshop. It was a beautiful little piece and the perfect size to carry in his pocket, which he did. What made it so special was knowing that _she_ had made it for him. Not for any reason other than she _wanted_ to, wanted him to have something of hers. And he didn’t have anything to give her in return. Not that she had ever asked for anything he couldn’t freely offer, but again, principle.

-&-

One day, he travelled to Glasgow without Hannah, who was trapped in the thralls of wedding-day details with his aunt and mother. He did not begrudge her that experience, it was bad enough for him with the rest of the clansmen from _both_ families going after him. The women had descended on dear Hannah like wolves, but she had yet to buckle under the overwhelming onslaught of well-meaning if not slightly misguided advice. And the men had come for him the same way. Her brothers had, in good spirits, laid out very detailed threats about what they would do to him (if Hannah didn’t do it for them) should he make the mistake of breaking their sister’s heart. He wasn’t about to do that, at least he didn’t plan on it. It was more than his sorry neck at stake if he did, and he knew it.

With a goal in mind and a list in his pocket, he set off along the wet streets of Glasgow to see if he could find his fiancée’s ring. If not, he wasn’t above asking for help from the family elders. It would probably get him a scolding for not asking _them_ first, but he felt obligated to go the “traditional route” of looking in jewellery stores first. Not that he wanted to, but it was an effort he was willing to put forth and suffer through for Hannah. As with previous excursions, he had no luck and was composing a text message to his mother to beg her assistance in this when he heard someone calling his name. He didn’t _know_ anyone in Glasgow, so hearing his name was a little unusual.

“Sherlock! Sherlock Holmes!” It was a woman’s voice, hoarse with alcohol and nicotine, and vaguely familiar. “Oi! You can hear me, you great berk! Turn around!” Groaning, Sherlock shoved his phone into his pocket and took a sharp pull of the cigarette between his lips. Buggering hell if one of his cousins had found him. Raising his head, he looked over his shoulder and got a glimpse of the woman who was trying to get his attention. Not a Holmes, she was a Watson. Sherlock had seen plenty of pictures of her and had several foggy memories of her from childhood.

“Oh, you have to be kidding me.” He blew out a slow breath, “Patience, patience, Sherlock. Be nice to your sister-in-law.” Not yet, his mind unhelpfully pointed out, and not like he _really_ owed her a kindness. As the stocky, angry red-headed woman stormed up to him, he wished for one moment that Hannah had come with him. Well, _anyone_ would be good company against the coming storm of Harry Watson’s fury. He couldn’t tell if the woman was drunk or not, suspected she might just be, and hoped she wouldn’t try to get physical.

“Hello, Harry. Been a while.”

“You’re fucking right it’s “been a while”!” She hissed, “Sherlock fucking Holmes! Been wondering when you’d show your sorry face again.”

“Nice to see you, too.” He studied the woman beside him, making a number of scathing split-second deductions in his head and very _wisely_ keeping them to himself. “What can I do for you, then? This isn’t a happy coincidence.”

“You’re getting _married_!”

“Not exactly state-secrets, Harriet.”

“Who the fuck are you getting married _to_? I thought you were Ace!”

“Well, if that’s any business of yours.” He blew a stream of smoke at the sky, “What have you heard?”

“You’re getting married to some tart! I can’t believe you would do that to my sister!”

“Oh, for Christ’s sake!” Now it made sense. Harry _was_ drunk, had probably just now gotten around to reading the invitation they would have received last week, and misunderstood the whole thing.

“Harry?”

“I swear, Holmes, I swear if you do another damn thing to break that poor girl’s heart, I will skin you alive and use your guts for bootlaces!”

“Harry!”

“What!”

“Will you just shut up for a minute? My god, you’re pissed!”

“Am not!”

“Yes, I’m afraid you’re quite soundly drunk.” He reached out and caught her as she swayed on her feet, “Stand still, you’re making me motion-sick.”

“’m not movin’.” Harry slurred. Sherlock sighed and put out his cigarette, kicking the stub into the street for the sweepers. He had been in Harry’s position more than once, and it hurt to see her like this. While she swayed against him, he pulled up his calendar and did some mental math. The wedding was in four days, everything was in order and proceeding according to schedule.

“What are you doing over there? Plotting world domination or something?”

“My brother’s the one planning world domination.” He grinned, “I’m not the one you have to worry about.”

“Nah, you’re just the mad one.” She didn’t mean that hurtfully, and he snickered.

“I’ve been called far worse than _mad_.”

“I know.” Harry made a face. Sherlock sobered and looked at his phone again.

“What?”

“Harry?”

“Hmm?”

“Where are you staying in Glasgow?”

“Small place over on, um, West Princes Street.”

“I’ll take you home.” He fired a text off to Mycroft with a list of things he wanted to have delivered after finding out Harry’s address.

“I don’t need…babysitting, Holmes.”

“Like Hell you don’t. Where is your wife?”

“In Canada. Some conference or other.”

“I see.” He hummed and watched Hannah’s sister very closely. Hannah had sent him a text asking if things were good, she was languishing in flowers and wanted to die if she had to look at another arrangement. To prove it, she sent him a picture and he snorted. She would kill him in his sleep for laughing, but it was rather entertaining to see her surrounded by piles of flowers, clearly displeased with things and unable to do more than glare at the camera. He suspected Aunt Rachel had taken the picture. Shaking his head, Sherlock pocketed his phone and steered Harry in the proper direction. Getting her situated in the car, he sent a text back that he was fine, had found a case to keep him a bit but not to worry. If he needed her, Hannah would be the first to know. That got him a reply that simply said the following:

 

**Don’t you dare do anything stupid without me. We are getting married if it’s the last fucking thing I do, understand me? – HW**

**Don’t worry. I’ll explain everything later. – SH**

**Git. – HW**

**Love you. <3 – HW**

She sent a heart emoji and that was the last of it. Mycroft replied to his request with word that everything had been delivered already and if he needed further assistance, to simply send word. Grateful for his brother’s usefulness in a few things, and his fiancée’s trust that he wasn’t going to do something to put their future at risk and he would, eventually, tell her the truth of what kept him in Glasgow this close to their wedding, he turned to the problem at hand.

It was a quiet, uneasy drive to Harry’s West Princes Street residence, which was small but lovely, and clearly not a bachelorette’s miserable home. There were personal touches and signs of a happy life all over, pictures framed and hung on walls and on the mantle of Harry and a very attractive woman with long brown hair and wide, smiling eyes.

“Thas’ my Clara girl.” She drawled, catching sight of one such picture, “Lovely thing, stays with me at m’ worst. Beat the shit out of her once and she forgave me for it.”

“That’s a strong woman.” He steered his stumbling sister-in-law to the master bedroom and got her out of her clothes, which had been worn far beyond propriety. Wrapping her up in a robe, he got her to the bathroom and sat her on the toilet while he ran the water in the shower.

“What are you _doing_?” She blinked up at him like he’d grown another head.

“You’re so drunk you can’t see straight, I’m surprised you recognized me or remembered my name. I’m going to get you sober and take you home.”

“Home?”

“Your family misses you, Harry.”

“No, they don’t. Family _hates_ me. Hates what I am. Says I’m a…a monster. A _freak_.”

“What your step-father did to you and your sister was inexcusable and disgusting.” He got her up and out of the robe, “He’s been dealt with.”

“Hah! Justice will never come for that fucker! He’s too…too…ugh!”

“Take it easy.” He steered her into the shower-stall, pushed her against the wall, and took off his shoes and socks. “Trust me, Harry. I know everything.”

“What do you think you know?”

“Your sister? She let me deduce her and asked me to tell her what I saw. I _saw_ everything. I see it in you, too, and it’s heartbreaking.” Sherlock shucked his suit jacket and added it to the small pile of clothes, “Your wife is the strongest woman I know who’s not family to either of us already for taking that kind of history on and sticking around.”

“H-Hannah? What’d he do to her?”

“What he _tried_ to do?” He shook his head, “I’ll tell you when you're sober.”

“M’kay. You’re nice to me, Sh’lock. Treat me good.” She hummed, head lolling as he stepped under the shower-head and cleaned her up, “Maybe…too nice.”

“Thank me when you’re sober. You’ll hate me before then.”

“Naah. Hate m’self first.” Harry made a face, “Brave man coming in a shower with me.”

“You’re not just my friend, Harry.” He finished what he was doing, remaining clinical about the drunken, naked woman he had to take care of. He was soaked through by the time he was satisfied, but that was fine. Turning the water off, he got out, bundled Harry up in her robe and several towels, grabbed a couple for himself, and steered her to the master bedroom. In anticipation of their arrival and a quirk of amazing timing, a fire burned in the bedroom fireplace and in the living-room hearth. The house was cosy and warm despite the weather outside. Getting Harry dry, he put her into pyjamas and went to change into dry clothes, bundling his wet things for later. Mycroft’s people had provided a change of clothes for him, several at his request, and he took a minute to sort himself out. As a matter of convenience, Sherlock’s clothes could either be dry-cleaned or machine-washed, and he would put his things through the dryer once he had Harry situated. Going back to the bedroom, he found her dozing off. Unpacking the medical kit, Sherlock quickly set up and started an IV line. Clean saline and a blend of vitamins and prophylactics. What had worked for him at his worst would work for her just as well. And really, it was the least he could do for her. He owed it to Harry and Hannah both to get Harry sober in time for the wedding and bring her _to_ the wedding.

Once Harry was stable and sleeping off the first round of remedies, Sherlock made himself at home and cruised news-sites for cases, solved a couple for the local precincts that had fallen cold, and asked Mycroft to keep the truth of his stay in Glasgow from Hannah.

_“I take it you’ve had dismal luck otherwise?”_ His brother asked on a phone-call regarding his mission.

_“No luck at all. I have nothing, Mycroft.”_ He rubbed his forehead, _“I need to give her something. Anything.”_

_“I may have a solution for you. It was put to me by John Watson.”_

_“What is it?”_ At this rate, Sherlock would take anything on offer.

_“Apparently, in the settling of their mother’s affairs after her death, Harriet Watson inherited her mother’s bridal set. She wanted nothing to do with it and it ended up with John, who held onto it for posterity.”_

_“Is he…willing to part with it like this?”_

“He all but insisted. Apparently, it’s a ring that belonged to their grandmother before it was passed to Mallory Watson.” Mycroft sounded rather touched by the family history behind the ring. Sherlock paced a bit, wondering which grandmother it had belonged to.

_“Did it belong to Elizabeth Vincent or Lucia McKay?”_

_“I believe it belonged to McKay.”_

_“And they’re still living, yes?”_

_“Far as I am aware, they are still living. And yes, before you ask, they are on the guest-list and have said they will come to the wedding.”_

_“Thank you. Tell John to keep that ring safe.”_

_“I will. Shall I have him give it to Hannah on your behalf and that of Gram McKay?”_

_“If you think that’s the best course of action. She’ll never get it otherwise.”_ He could always exchange rings with her per tradition on the wedding-day at their handfasting ceremony if they ran out of time. Mycroft promised to keep the McKay ring safe until they figured out what to do with it, and to keep Hannah in the dark about Harry. That gave Sherlock enough time to get Harry sober and wait for the wedding day. If they needed him before then, he could judge whether it was important enough to leave Harry, but he suspected he would stay with her as long as he possibly could, at least until she was coherent. Suffering a detox alone was always awful and he would never abandon someone so in need, especially not family.

-&-

It was three days after he met her in Glasgow that Sherlock declared Harry completely sober, and it had been a wretched, long three days for both of them. He had kept himself busy solving crimes over the internet and by phone, making tip-calls to the proper authorities, between coxing Harry through bouts of withdrawal. On the morning of the last day he was in Glasgow, the fourth day he was in the city, he fixed breakfast for both of them. While Harry took a shower, he laid out the outfit for the wedding, the invitation on top of it. He knocked on the door and poked his head in.

“Harry, love?”

“Yo?”

“I have to get back to Lauder, I’ve been gone a bit too long.”

“You didn’t have to stay with me, Sherlock, you’ll miss your own fucking wedding at this rate!”

“Not likely, but I’d rather not.” He looked over his shoulder, “I left something for you on your bed.”

“Ta. Tell my sister she’s an idiot for letting you slip through her skinny little fingers, will you?”

“Who said she did?” He grinned and ducked out again, “See you ‘round, Harry Watson!” He left the house with his bag over one shoulder, keys in his pocket, and locked up behind himself. Whistling, he set off for his car and drove back to Lauder. He had _plenty_ of time before he had to be anywhere, and made it back in time to start getting ready. Mycroft couldn’t stop smiling, knowing what he did about Sherlock’s absence, and Sherlock honestly hoped that Harry would come to the wedding. It would make Hannah so happy to see her sister again. Especially today, of all days.

* * *

 


	13. Blind Love Pt 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Big Day is here! Family, friends, and loved ones gather for a very special day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is from Harry Watson's POV  
> ::  
> I got the title from the way it goes during the ceremony for Sherlock and Hannah: both are blindfolded so there is no way at all they can see each other before they stand before the Registrar. I don't know where I came up with that idea, but it wouldn't leave me alone and I liked the idea of adding a little mystery to the big day.

* * *

When Clara Oswin walked through the door of the little house on West Princes Street, tired from a long flight but eager to see her loved one, Harry Watson was sitting on her bed, staring at the cardstock between her fingers. It was a familiar invitation, but one she hadn’t properly paid attention to or read clearly the first time. It had come to the house at the start of the month, addressed to Harry and Clara, inviting them to the wedding of Sherlock Holmes, who had long been a friend of the family and dear to Harry’s sister Hannah. She hadn’t read beyond that or hadn’t comprehended, and in an alcohol-induced haze, had stormed the streets of Glasgow looking for the sorry fucker who thought he could get away with breaking her sister’s heart. At least, that’s what she’d thought at the time. And she hadn’t even known if he was _in_ Glasgow. It was far more likely he would be in Edinburgh, and she was willing to go down there and rip him to shreds if that was a necessary thing. Four days later, it was a very, _very_ different story and Harry was nearly in tears.

“Hal?” Clara came in and found her there, “Oh, dear, what’s wrong now?”

“Clara?”

“What happened, love?” Her patient, adoring wife sat down on the bed with her and put an arm around her shoulders, “What is it?”

“You know how sometimes you’ll make up your mind about something without knowing all the facts and then you turn out to be wrong about the whole thing?”

“Harry, what happened?”

“I was so wrong to hate him! And he stayed with me, Clara! He _stayed_ here when he needed to be in Lauder!” She handed over the invitation, “Why did he stay?”

“Oh, my god. It was Hannah! Harry, you idiot, I said it was! You didn’t believe me!”

“I didn’t _know_ , Clara! I thought he was marrying someone else! He never said he wasn’t, but he…” She sniffled, “He left this for me this morning. Why do we deserve Sherlock Holmes?”

“Your sister is a lucky woman.” Clara smiled and kissed her, “Come on, you silly thing. We’ve got a wedding to go to! I am _not_ missing this for any money! Can you imagine the kind of party that’s going to be?”

“I haven’t seen my family in years.” She let Clara get her up on her feet. She was worried about seeing her family after so many years alienated from them, but that was entirely her own damn fault. Clara ducked into the loo and took a shower before they got ready. She was dying to know where Sherlock had found hostess skirts in the tartan Harry and Clara had created when they got married, it was a lovely touch for the day. Usually, she hated skirts, but she would wear one for Hannah’s wedding.

-&-

They took the ScotRail from Charing Cross to Edinburgh Waverley, walked six minutes to Lothian Chambers, where the wedding was taking place, and Harry prepared for what could be a very awkward reunion. They weren’t quite late, but they were among the last guests to arrive, and that was fine. Standing outside the room to greet guests and direct them were Mycroft Holmes and his charming, handsome husband, Greg Lestrade.

It was one of the only times in her life that Harry could honestly remember seeing Mycroft in _anything_ except a three-piece suit. For the occasion of his little brother’s wedding, he wore a family tartan that he had made up with Lestrade for their wedding and a Prince Charlie jacket and waistcoat. But it wasn’t a half-arsed get-up, it was the whole nine and he looked positively smashing. Harry was so glad to see Mycroft, he really had been instrumental in helping her clean up her act and settle down with Clara, even if she did keep falling off the fucking wagon once every three months. When he spotted them, Mycroft smiled.

“Harriet.”

“Mycroft. God, you look amazing.” She gave her brother-in-law a hug.

“How are you?”

“Nervous. But I think my sister’s more nervous than I am.”

“Actually, she’s been pretty chill about this whole thing, give or take a couple of breakdowns.” Greg Lestrade smirked, “Care to guess what pushed her over the edge?”

“Flowers?”

“Yep.”

“Poor dear. Well, this is a handsome piece.” Harry tugged on the boutonnière pinned to Mycroft’s jacket, a little sprig of St. John’s Wort bundled with Lisianthus, Rosemary, and Sea Holly. “Think we can sneak in?”

“Oh, absolutely.” Greg pushed the door open for them. No one really noticed them sneaking in, and Harry tugged Clara towards the Holmeses. They were, of course, thrilled to see her, and understood that she was nervous about encountering her own family, but that could wait for after. Sherlock stood at the front of the room by a small table, and if Harry thought Mycroft looked sharp, Sherlock looked amazing.

“I _always_ said he looked good in that fucking kilt.” She muttered, shaking her head, “Never believed me.” It was very clear that he was nervous, but that was to be expected, and she felt a little sorry for him. It was obvious so much thought and personalisation had gone into this ceremony, which was really just a simple handfasting, and Harry noticed that there was something in Sherlock’s hands as he waited for those doors to open again.

“Is that…is that the Strad?”

“That’s his violin.” Clara whispered, “Oh, this is going to be amazing!”

“Wait, what?” Harry knew he was a gifted player, better than some professionals, but she could only think of one reason he would be _holding_ his violin at his own wedding. At some pre-determined signal, her brother John blindfolded Sherlock, whispered something in his ear, and got an affirmative.

“What did he ask?”

“If he can see anything.” Rachel McCallum was absolutely beaming.

“I guess that’s a solid no?”

“A _very_ solid no.” Rachel smiled and took Harry’s hand, “I’m so glad you came, Harry, I’m so glad you made it. And Hannah’s going to be so very thrilled.”

“You can thank your scoundrel nephew. Dragged my sorry drunk arse home four days ago and stuck around until I was sober. Left me to put the pieces in order and here I am.”

“Good for you.” Rachel squeezed her hand as the doors opened. As they did, everyone in the room turned to face the doors as the most beautiful music began to play. A solo violin piece, soft, simple, and heartfelt, it was gorgeous. Harry turned and realized what was happening.

“Oh. My God. He’s…”

“Breathe, Hal,” Clara whispered. Blindfolded so he couldn’t actually see Hannah coming, Sherlock was playing music _he_ had written for this very occasion, putting his heart and soul into the music as he played her up the aisle to give her promise to stay with him through whatever madness came for them. Sherlock Holmes was playing his wife up the aisle at their wedding, as she was led by the fathers. James Watson (not dead, as believed by so many) on her left, Timothy Holmes on her right, guiding her as she was blindfolded. It was the most beautiful thing Harry had ever seen, and she was dying to know who had come up with the idea of blindfolding the couple so they couldn’t see each other until they stood before the Registrar together for the first time. Of course, her brother Iain MacKelpie was responsible for taking pictures and was doing a bang-up job of getting some prime shots. Harry wondered what it would take to get a copy of the finished album for herself. It wasn’t _her_ wedding, but Christ she wanted the pictures! She wanted to remember this forever, there was so much that made it special.

Sherlock looked dashing and handsome in his family tartan, wearing the same Prince Charlie jacket and waistcoat all of the clansmen wore with the tartan of their respective families, a beautiful purple shirt instead of traditional white, every pleat crisp and just right, the fly-plaid pinned in place with a clan-crest on the left shoulder, black brogues and hose with tartan flashes and a sgian dubh tucked into it’s traditional place of honor, a “formal” sporran, and a black Balmoral cap adorned with a band of his family tartan on the brim with the ribbons untied topped off his outfit. Harry wondered where Sherlock had gotten his sgian dubh, seeing as Timothy’s had gone to Mycroft when he married Greg, it was clearly a father-son hand-me-down according to a tradition older than most of the people in this room.

Hannah, likewise, was gorgeous in a white long-sleeved dress with illusion mesh sleeves, a flattering, wide-set V-neck and daring low back that struck a lovely balance between covered and bare, and an A-line skirt with a sweep train that added a softly voluminous finish. Over one shoulder, Hannah wore a sash in the Watson colours, family pride in plain view pinned with her regimental badge from the Army. Instead of a traditional hairpiece, she wore a flower-crown put together from St. John’s Wort, Lisianthus, Rosemary, and Sea Holly to match the boutonnières adorned with white silk ribbons left untied. It was just perfect.

* * *

 


	14. Blind Love Pt 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Big Day is here! Family, friends, and loved ones gather for a very special day!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I got the title from the way it goes during the ceremony for Sherlock and Hannah: both are blindfolded so there is no way at all they can see each other before they stand before the Registrar. I don't know where I came up with that idea, but it wouldn't leave me alone and I liked the idea of adding a little mystery to the big day.  
> 

* * *

Hannah Watson had spent nearly a month working out the fine details of her own wedding-day, most of it had been planned for years in advance and there was truly little to concern herself with, but that hadn’t kept her from _worrying_ about it. She was getting married, for fuck’s sake! To Sherlock Holmes, of all people! She had absolutely no regrets about any of it, but…that didn’t keep the nerves at bay. It was a simple civil ceremony, neither of them was particularly religious, and a handfasting ceremony would do for making them man and wife. Her dress was traditionally white, with a rather daring open back, but she loved it. It was just girly enough for her liking but not what she called a “cupcake dress”, all poofy layers of silk and lace and organza and no practicality. She hadn’t seen Sherlock in almost a week, between tradition stating that the couple should not see each other before the wedding and a case that had come up in Glasgow, but she was fairly certain he hadn’t managed to sweet-talk his way out of wearing a kilt. John had promised to hold a gun to his head if he tried, it was dress-code and he was going to wear the damn thing if it turned out they buried him in it.

 

When she finally stood outside the doors of the room inside Lothian Chambers where she was about to give her future away to the one person she trusted to be careful with it, and with her battered heart, she reminded herself to breathe. Her father _and_ Sherlock’s were going to take her up the aisle, such as it was, for one very simple reason. She was going to be blindfolded. So was Sherlock, she wasn’t sure whose idea _that_ had been, but it was rather charming. Besides, if she couldn’t see, she couldn’t really freak out. John was in charge of Sherlock, and Iain was in charge of Hannah. He was waiting for them and held up the length of white silk.

“Ready for this?”

“Nope.”

“Ah, you’ll be fine. You look gorgeous, love.” He beamed as he kissed her on the cheek, “You should see that man of yours, fine sight for sore eyes he is.”

“Iain!” She gave her brother a look, “No!”

“Got you to smile, didn’t I?”

“Iain, behave yourself.” Timothy Holmes rolled his eyes, “If you can _possibly_ manage.”

“Oh, I’ll behave myself. I had Mary swear a thing or two if I cocked up today.”

“I can’t believe she came up.”

“Of course she came! She’s your sister-in-law, ain’t she?” Iain went around behind her and she closed her eyes as he tied the blindfold in place. Her brother’s wife had been invited right off, but even when she had informed them that she was coming, it was no certainty she would make a showing. Mary Morstan was a woman of skill and one of the kindest people Hannah had ever met. The story of how John and Mary had met was one of those “you had to be there to believe it” sorts, but they had been married for three years and had a beautiful little girl named Rosamund Elizabeth Mary, who was just the dearest little thing and a show-stealer wherever she went. She had her mother’s looks and her father’s charm, and she was adored by all the family who knew her. Hannah was so glad to know her sister-in-law had made it to the wedding and spared a thought for her own sister Harriet, who was God alone knew where in the troubled world. Probably drowning at the bottom of a whiskey-bottle, if she had to guess.

“Can’t see, can you?” Iain whispered, squeezing her shoulder. Hannah opened her eyes and saw nothing but white.

“Not a thing. Just white.”

“Good. Alright, ready for this?”

“No.”

“Come on, you.” He chuckled and was gone. She heard the doors creak open and then the sound of music. A solo violin. Played live, and _very_ well. Was that…no, Sherlock wouldn’t be, would he? Would he? On his own wedding day? She knew he’d been working on something the last few weeks, spending hours cooped up in a study with the door closed. She had left him to it, knowing it was something special. As James and Timothy ushered her along the aisle, keeping her in motion and also keeping her upright, she recognized the song. It was an instrumental version of “Feels Like Home”, made famous by the likes Bonnie Raitt and Linda Ronstadt, carefully transcribed for the violin. “Feels Like Home” was one of her favourite songs, Sherlock knew this, had _remembered_ her favourite song, and gone ahead and done this for her. Finally, she was tugged to a stop. The music had ended, and she heard the sound of rustling as their guests faced the front of the room. The Registrar who was marrying them asked a very simple question.

“Are we all present?” There was a murmured “yes” from their small gathering of friends and family. “Then the attendants may remove the blindfolds and allow the couple to see each other.” Hannah took a deep, shaky breath as Iain carefully untied the blindfold, itching to reach for Sherlock, who was standing less than a foot dead in front of her. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been this nervous about _anything_. Having a pretty decent idea what to expect, she let out the breath she’d been holding and opened her eyes. She had to assume her expression matched Sherlock’s, he looked absolutely dumbfounded. It was a good thing she hadn’t been expected to memorise anything, she was fairly certain it would have been forgotten when she set eyes on her best friend. Sherlock, already unfairly handsome, was stunning in the kilt and fly-plaid, the Prince Charlie jacket cut just right for his slender frame and the kilt sitting perfectly on his hips and waist. She wasn’t sure if the small sound she made was audible to anyone else, but she heard the soft whine. She paid attention to the Registrar, she had to, but…oh, Sherlock.

She remembered to say the proper words at the proper time, and when the Registrar asked if they were going to exchange rings, John stepped up. As a matter of fact, yes, they were going to exchange rings. She had received the ring-box in John’s left hand two days ago from Timothy and Wanda, who had all but insisted that she take the rings inside and give them to Sherlock. It turned out that _Wanda_ had done the asking when they got engaged all those long years ago, and Timothy had, for years and years, worn both rings proudly. But as his sons grew to marriageable age, he set them aside in hopes that one day he could pass them on, instead wearing a simple gold band. Mycroft and Greg had purchased their own rings and with no hope for Sherlock in sight, the rings had gone unused. Until Hannah had stumbled into his life and stayed there, until today. The Registrar looked at Hannah and Sherlock and nodded.

“Hannah, will you give your token to William and repeat these words: I give you this ring as a constant reminder of the promises we exchanged today. As you receive this ring, receive my promise of faithfulness to you.” Hannah took the ring she was giving to Sherlock and took a deep breath.

“Sherlock Holmes, I give you this ring as a constant reminder of the promises we exchanged today. As you receive this ring, receive my promise of faithfulness to you.” Somehow, she managed to avoid dropping the ring and slid it onto Sherlock’s hand. Marvel of marvels, it was a nearly perfect fit! Sherlock really was his father’s son!

“William, will you give your token to Hannah and repeat these words: I give you this ring as a constant reminder of the promises we exchanged today. As you receive this ring, receive my promise of faithfulness to you.” Sherlock smiled and took the ring he was giving to Hannah.

“Hannah Watson, I give you this ring as a constant reminder of the promises we exchanged today. As you receive this ring, receive my promise of faithfulness to you.” Sherlock slid the ring onto Hannah’s hand, shaking almost as badly, but he didn’t drop his ring either. Hannah recognized it right away. It was Gran McKay’s ring, which had gone to Harry when their mother’s estate had been distributed following her death. Hannah had honestly thought it had been sold off or lost and wondered where it had been kept all these years, knowing damn well Harry hadn’t kept it safe.

“William and Hannah, you have exchanged your promises and given and received tokens in my presence. By these acts, you have become wed. According to the laws of the City of Edinburgh, and The Commonwealth of Great Britain, I hereby pronounce you are married. You may seal your promise with a kiss.” And by god did they kiss. James had to put one hand on Hannah’s shoulder when Sherlock’s kiss almost knocked her off her feet.

“Ladies and gentlemen, the newlyweds.” The minister was absolutely beaming. A rough start had led to a smooth ending. It couldn’t have been more perfect. Hannah couldn’t stifle a squeak of alarm when her centre of balance shifted and Sherlock dipped her. But he wasn’t about to drop her. Giggling as he set her back on her feet, she took a minute and caught her breath. The Registrar held out a biro and they signed their names to the proper papers that marked them officially wed. Once that final bit of official business was out of the way, Hannah grabbed Sherlock by the hand and headed for the door. Outside, they ducked into the waiting car, arranged for them by Mycroft to take them from Lothian Chambers to Norton House for the reception.

-&-

As they left the venue behind, Hannah tried to remember how to breathe again. That was _kind_ of hard when Sherlock had other ideas about what to do with their time.

“I missed you.” He breathed against her neck, “While I was in Glasgow, I missed you so much.”

“Solve that case you were on?”

“Solved several, in fact.”

“Of course you did.” She giggled as he threatened to leave a mark but didn’t. Well, not a highly visible mark, at any rate. “You’re Sherlock Holmes! Can’t go anywhere without solving a case or two for the hell of it!”

“You know me too well.”

“I hope I do.” She threaded her fingers through those glorious curls, stroking the black ribbons of his Balmoral cap. He could tie them now, seeing as he was married and such. Quickly, and with care for the movements of the car, he swung her up and she straddled his lap.

“That’s a risky thing, sir.”

“A risk I am very willing to take.” He looked up from laying down a trail of kisses to the dip of cleavage revealed by her dress, grinning mischievously. “The driver will maintain discretionary silence.”

“You, sir, are a horny bastard!”

“And you’re the one they called Three Continents Watson.”

“Oh, I should _hate_ you for that!” She tugged on his hair, not really that upset with him. He snickered and snuck one hand under her skirts. When he reached the inconsequential fabric barrier of her carefully-selected knickers, a gift from Aunt Rachel that morning as she got ready for the ceremony, and found the slit, she stifled a mean snicker of her own. Oh, he hadn’t been expecting _that_ , had he?

“Oh, Hannah.” His voice was a hoarse growl.

“Mhm. Thought you might like that.”

“You mean thing.”

“Only if I don’t follow through.” She kissed his temple and nuzzled his ear, “I was taking bets, you know?”

“On what?”

“If you went old-fashioned wearing your kilt.” She tugged on a fold of tartan, “Did I tell you that you look absolutely stunning in this kilt? I’d even say gorgeous.”

“You are far too kind, Ms Watson. Far. Too. Kind.” He lifted his head for a proper kiss, punctuating each word with a soft peck. At the same time, Hannah slid her knees further apart and canted her hips just so as she swept aside the folds of tartan fabric, and gasped when those long, clever fingers slid up inside.

“Oh. Jackpot.” She whispered, finding him quite bare below the belt as she tucked the kilt up out of the way. “You evil genius.”

“It’s not mandatory, y’know? Wear it how you like it.”

“You’ve always been an exhibitionist!” She moaned, “Wouldn’t be a bit surprised to hear you’ve waltzed into Buckingham Palace in a bedsheet.”

“Oh, I have.” He twisted his fingers just so and she gasped, clutching at his jacket as he brushed against her G-spot. “For a case, of course.”

“Of. Course.” She whined, rocking against him, “Oh, don’t! Don’t tease me, Sherlock, you’re a cruel man!”

“Who said I was teasing?” He kissed her ear, “This is foreplay, love.”

“It’s unfair is what it is!” Hannah flexed her hips and rutted against his fingers, desperate for the real thing, which happily rose to the occasion with a few careful, deliberate strokes. They were up against a rather slow-moving clock, but time was not in their favour. Anyone looking for the signs would read them loud and clear, but if any of their guests had honestly expected them to keep their hands off each other now that they were legally married, in the eyes of the Crown if not the Church, they were going to be sorely disappointed.

Hannah buried a yelp in Sherlock’s shoulder, biting down on the fly-plaid, as he stroked her to the edge and held her there. Begging would do no good, and she had better things to do anyway. Without bothering to ask where he’d come up with the condom he held up with a triumphant grin, she ripped the corner of the wrapper with her teeth and dropped the rolled rubber into his hand. She knew he was clean, they had both been tested very early in the proceedings, this was for convenience. The condom went on smoothly and he held her by the hips, letting her do the work. They used the sway of the car in motion to keep a rhythm, but it wasn’t easy. It didn’t take long before she hit that edge again and this time, he came with her.

__

After a cursory clean-up, everything going into a discrete baggie, she curled up against his side and laid her head against his chest, listening to his heart hammering against his ribs.

“I did that.” She grinned, giddy and sweetly sore, “Y’know, they’re going to know _exactly_ what we got up to.”

“So? We’re not exactly children.” He stroked her shoulder, tracing the lines of her scar. It had faded to pale white and pink, the harshest lines faintly raised thanks to the careful diligence of a cosmetic surgeon who had specialised in reconstructive breast surgery. She was not shy of scars, she had several, but her surgical team in Surrey had assumed on her behalf and done what they could to minimise the worst of it. Leaning in, Sherlock kissed the scar and laid his ear against her chest.

“I nearly missed this.” He sounded sad, “I nearly lost you.”

“For the times I nearly lost _you_ , love, it was as hard for me.” She stroked the back of his neck, “We’ve both done reckless, careless things, put our lives in danger many times. But we have both taken far fewer risks than before, as far as we can in any case.”

“Don’t leave me, Hannah, please. Whatever I must do or say to keep you by me until we’re old and have outlived our usefulness, I will make it so.”

“I gave you my vows today, Sherlock. I didn’t do that on a silly whim or without thinking things over. I will not leave you of my own accord. Injury, illness, or death will be the only thing to part us. We may not be married before God, but we are married before each other.” She rested her cheek on his hair, closing her eyes for a moment.

-&-

The car made several turns, slowed, and finally came to a final halt. A member of the hotel staff opened the door for them and Sherlock got out first, offering his hand to Hannah. Everyone was going to meet them inside, but Iain was there to get the first pictures of them as they arrived. The first thing he did was offer them water, which they were glad to accept, and tugged on a few errant wrinkles to set rumpled pleats and seams straight again. He never said anything, but his smile said it all and his eyes were bright. One picture he wanted was a clear shot of their rings. That had been kind of hard to get at Lothian Chambers, and the personal histories behind the rings themselves fascinated him.

“You got Gram McKay’s ring, Nan.” He smiled, “Where did you get yours, Sherlock?”

“It was my father’s. I think he was hoping to pass it on to Mycroft, but they purchased their own rings.”

“I bet he was more than happy to give it over.”

“He cried when he gave me the box.” Hannah leaned against Sherlock, feeling like she was missing someone.

“What’s wrong, love?”

“I don’t know.” She frowned, “I feel like we’re missing someone, but I can’t think of anyone we might have forgotten to invite.”

“Is there someone we invited who may not have been able to make it?”

“That’s probably it. I’ve been in knots for days.” She shrugged. After getting the shots he wanted, Iain gave their rings back and they headed for the reception. The hotel was theirs for the taking, an indulgence Hannah was glad for.

When they got to the reception, it was to find the party had started without them. Not that she was too surprised, or that disappointed. Iain preceded them into the room and had a word with their Master of Ceremonies, who got everyone’s attention and Hannah took a deep breath.

“This is it.”

“ _Breathe_ , Hannah.” Sherlock scolded as the doors were flung open. Theirs had been a small affair in the grander scheme of things, but seeing their families together and celebrating something that was probably a few years long in coming, it made her happy. There were people missing, she listed their names in her head and was sorry they hadn’t been able to make it. Harry and Clara, she couldn’t see _them_. James’s partner Thomas Balloch, who was in Akrotiri and Dhekelia at Dhekelia Cantonment, was also absent.

Thomas Balloch was part of the reason her mother had been so cruel to Hannah and Harriet. Harriet was the eldest of the four Watson children, but Mallory’s cruelty had not been spared to her eldest. Hannah was the only one of the triplets who had remained with the Watsons, and knowing damn well where she’d come from, Mallory had shown an unusual breed of neglect and cruelty as she got older. Robert Leland had only made things that much worse once he came into the picture. She had written to Thomas several times, begging for any relief he could offer her. He had been very good about giving her a sympathetic ear and a safe place to stay when her house became too hostile and too toxic. Hannah found herself wishing he could have been here today, he would have loved the whole thing, would have probably helped Rachel plan the wedding.

* * *

 


	15. Tha Fortan An Cuideachd Nan Treum - Fortune Favours The Brave

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hannah and Sherlock are officially married, and are ready to share their special day with their guests.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A special guest comes late to the reception. He missed the wedding, but he didn't miss the party!

* * *

After the reception was underway, they did some mingling and she used the opportunity to do a head-count of their guests. Parents and grandparents, of course, aunts, uncles, cousins, family friends and acquaintances. Molly Hooper and Annika Gabriel had come, as had Victor Trevor and Jack Evans, who had cleared their schedules as soon as they got word and promised to move mountains to be there if they had to. It occurred to Hannah how many of their friends had partners of the same sex, and wondered what it said about her that she was one of two married Watson siblings who had married the opposite sex. Harry and John were both married, to respective patient spouses who loved them for everything they were and took their troubled pasts in stride.

“Auntie Nan!” A small voice squealed, giving her all the heads-up she needed to prepare for John’s small family of three. Well, actually, four now.

“Well, hi there, Rosamary!” She reached down and scooped her niece into her arms, flipping her upside-down, “How’s my girl?”

“Don’t drop me!”

“Oh, I’m not going to _drop_ you, silly. Here, up we go.” She flipped Rosie right-way-up and hugged her, “Hello, gorgeous.”

“Auntie Nan, you look so pretty!” Rosie cooed, petting her dress and her hair, playing with the flowers of her crown. Hannah chuckled and looked at Sherlock, who hadn’t left her side for a minute except to get drinks. He was fond of children, and she wondered if he’d ever had a chance to meet Rosie and spend time with her before. She watched the two study each other and chuckled.

“Rosie, you know who this is, right?” Rosie looked Sherlock up and down and made a face.

“Uncle Shel?” She tilted her head, adorable as she charmed Hannah’s husband. Which wasn’t _that_ hard.

“I guess Sherlock is a bit of a mouthful for a three-year-old, yeah?” John chuckled. “You okay with that one, Holmes?”

“Absolutely! She’s adorable!” Sherlock looked affronted that they would question his approval of the way Rosamund had shortened his name and held out his arms for the little girl, who just about jumped from Hannah’s arms to get to him.

“Well, that didn’t take very long at all, did it?” Hannah looked at her brother, who just shrugged.

“Guess not.” Mary smirked, “I keep forgetting he _likes_ children.”

“I love children. It’s the adults I don’t get along with.” Sherlock scolded them as he held Rosamund, who played with his clan-crest badge pinned at his shoulder. Hannah and the other two snickered. That, they knew, was _very_ true.

 

Leaving Sherlock to spend time with John’s family, he got along with them far better than he got along with most people, Hannah went to do some mingling solo. As she joined the Holmeses, she recognized two of the people chatting with Aunt Rachel. She stopped for a minute, studying the couple from behind. Finishing her drink, a glass of chardonnay picked out by Aunt Rachel, she willed the woman to Aunt Rachel’s right to turn so she could see her face.

“Take your glass, ma’am?” A passing server touched her on the shoulder. She handed over her glass and nodded.

“Thank you.”

“Ma’am.” The server nodded and smiled, disappearing into the crowd. Just then, the woman turned and Hannah saw her profile.

“Oh my god. Harry!” She took off, wondering who had said the magic words and how they’d done it. Where on earth had they even _found_ her sister? “Harriet!”

“Hannah!” Harry turned around and caught her, “Sweetie, you look amazing! Oh, Christ, Hannah Watson!”

“Harry, you made it! You…where the _hell_ have you been?”

“Glasgow, hiding.” Harry kissed her on the cheek, “Oh, love, you look gorgeous today! The blindfolds were a lovely touch. Were you nervous?”

“It’s a good thing I had Da and Dad, I would’ve gone down otherwise!” She pulled back and looked at her sister, “Who talked? Who found you?”

“You have a very persuasive husband, did you know that?”

“Oh, _Sherlock_!” She stomped her foot, “That’s what he was doing in Glasgow! Oh, that sly, sneaky…”

“What did he tell you he was doing?”

“Working a case! That sneaky bastard!” She looked over her shoulder and caught sight of her husband still chatting with John and Mary, who was heavily pregnant with the couple’s second child.

“Christ, I hope Mary wasn’t in the field like that.”

“Hmm?”

“Mary. She’s four or five months along, looks healthy, but if she’s been out in the field like that, I’ll have some words for her.”

“John wouldn’t let her out like that, and she wouldn’t put the child at risk.” Aunt Rachel shook her head, “Don’t worry your head, love.” Hannah huffed and looked at her sister, who just flashed her a smug grin and sipped her drink, something likely nonalcoholic. They had accounted for those among their guests who did not drink. Curious, and not fully trusting her sister to have resisted the urge to spike her drink with something, Hannah swiped her sister’s glass and took a sip. Covering the taste of alcohol was almost impossible, and she raised an eyebrow.

“Harry?”

“After the way your husband found me four days ago, I’m not about to spike my drink. Or anyone else’s.”

“Jesus Christ, Harry.” She put her head down on her sister’s shoulder, “You need to stop doing that, there’s too many people who would miss you.” So that’s why Sherlock had been in Glasgow for the past four days. He’d passed it off as case-work, but really he’d been looking after Harry and getting her clean. If anyone knew how hard it was to come down from being drunk or high, Hannah and Sherlock were both very familiar with it. She sighed and hugged her sister, just glad they’d made it to the wedding. After making a few more rounds among the guests, it was time to eat. Hannah, who hadn’t eaten since breakfast, was starving. Dinner was amazing, there was plenty of food and drink to go around, and finally, it was time for the dancing.

-&-

Hannah and Sherlock were both very good dancers, secretly loved it, and had spent hours dancing together at Baker Street. She made a mental bet with herself that their first dance as a married couple would be either “Feels Like Home” Or Anne Murray’s “Could I Have This Dance”. Before he’d split for Glasgow, they’d danced a number of times to both songs. Sure enough, when he took her hand on the dance-floor, it was to the strains of “Could I Have This Dance”. Clever, observant bastard. _Her_ clever, observant bastard. Hannah wondered that all she had to do, in order to hear her husband’s heartbeat, was lay her head against his chest. That was a rather nice bonus. It didn’t take her long to realize that he was singing along with the music, he liked doing that sometimes, and she smiled. This, all of this, was hers for the rest of their lives.

Next, she danced with her father while Sherlock danced with his mother, combining the father-daughter and mother-son dances into one. After that, the dance-floor was opened to the guests and Hannah danced with both of her brothers, both of the Holmes boys, Greg Lestrade, both of the fathers, and the grandfathers on both sides of the family. Needless to say, her dance-card was very full. She even danced with Victor and Jack, who thanked her for committing to a lifetime with Sherlock and apologised for sort of getting in the way of things back in February.

 “It wasn’t you, Victor, I promise it wasn’t you.” Hannah kissed Victor on the cheek, “My stepfather’s voice was always loudest in my head, and always when things were just starting to go well. Don’t blame yourself for me being an idiot.”

“You’re amazing, Hannah.” Victor twirled her out and passed her off to Sherlock when the song ended. “Do right by this girl, Sherlock, she’s one-of-a-kind for certain.”

“I know she is.” Sherlock just smiled and put an arm around her waist, holding her like that with his chin resting on her hair. She was just the right height for that, too. Victor shook his head.

“You two really are perfect for each other. Absolutely. Thanks for the invite, too.”

“Of course! You’re our friends!” Hannah rolled her eyes, “A lot more than that, too.” Victor just laughed and hugged her tight, telling her to not be a stranger once they were back in London. Mary came for Sherlock and dragged him off to the dance-floor, insisting that he owed her a dance or two. Hannah just laughed and waved them off, warning her sister-in-law to be nice to her husband.

“Oh don’t worry about us, love! I’ll give him back the way I got ‘im!” Mary wagged her fingers and Hannah went in search of a drink and some good company.

 

Procuring a glass of wine, she circuited the tables and spent some time with Mrs Hudson and Mr Turner, who were ever so thrilled she and Sherlock had _finally_ come to their senses.

“Sure did take us long enough, didn’t it?” She chuckled, “Well, it wouldn’t have lasted much longer, I don’t think.”

“No?”

“Oh, no!” Hannah chuckled, “Not with the lot of you breathing down our necks! Christ, even Greg’s _boss_ was on our backs about it.”

“Oh, I _like_ her! She’s such a charming woman!” Mrs Hudson giggled, “I’m so glad you invited her.”

“I think she’d have said something not nice if we didn’t, Mrs H.” Hannah looked across the room to where she could see Victoria Graham sitting with her husband and some of the Holmeses. They had scattered the tables, peppering each table with family from both sides and inserting friends where there was room for them. “We did try to keep it small, y’know?”

“Doesn’t look small to me!” Mr Turner rolled his eyes and sipped at a glass of whiskey, “Didn’t think you knew so many people, love.”

“Neither did we.” She shrugged, “But, looks like most everybody made it.”

“Hmm. You’re missing one, aren’t you?”

“I might be.” She wondered at how _observant_ the landlords were, “We invited him, but I don’t know if he would have made it. He responded with a maybe and we put him on the lists for everything.”

“Oh, that’s lovely of you, dear!” Mrs Hudson patted her on the hand, eyes damp, “You look so pretty today.”

“Through no easy feat of tying me to a chair long enough to get me ready.” She sipped her wine, “Would you believe me if I told you they _literally_ tied me down?”

“Oh, Hannah!”

“I hate wearing make-up, it’s so impractical. But today, I had no choice.”

 “Well, you look just lovely.” Mr Turner leaned across Mrs Hudson and kissed her on the cheek, “Pretty as my own daughter did when I gave her away.”

“Don’t get too teary-eyed, it’s right back to jeans and trousers and jumpsuits when I get back to London.”

“Will you go back to work with the ambulance corps, then, dear?”

“I might. Just on a part-time basis to bolster the income when cases get thin.” She shrugged, “And yes, I _am_ moving into Baker Street permanently. My things are already there.”

“Yes, you moved in before you left for Scotland!” Mrs Hudson beamed, “Oh, and do tell your brothers they are _welcome_ to visit Baker Street! Such lovely men, they are!”

“Oh, of _course_ John and Iain charmed you, Mrs Hudson.” She smiled, “Have you danced with them yet?”

“Oh, yes! Quite the dancers they are.” The way her landlady blushed said everything. 

“Don’t worry, Mr Turner, John’s married with one and another on the way. It’s Iain you’d have to be worried about.” Hannah patted Mr Turner on the hand when he made a face. “But he’ll hunt the singles tonight.” A couple of handsome young bucks like Hannah’s brothers flirting with _his_ date had probably ruffled his feathers a bit, but she knew John and Iain didn’t run like that. They could be very charming, but they had limits.

“He’s such a dear thing. Lovely boys, the both of them.” Mrs Hudson sighed happily, eyes fixed on her brothers, who were currently chatting with Sherlock. It looked like a very interesting conversation, and when her husband covered his face, cheeks bright red, she knew they were having _that_ conversation. She laughed.

“Oh, dear. Should I go rescue my husband?”

“Nah. Let him squirm a bit. Good for the soul.” Mr Turner grinned, “I do like your brothers, my dear. I was rather vexed when I heard you had little family to speak of, or speak _to_.”

“Today was a very good day for my sister, but that was thanks to Sherlock. Sneaky git went off to Glasgow for four days and didn’t say why. Said it was work that kept him. I’m _not_ stupid.” She sniffled, not at all angry with Sherlock for keeping it a secret that he’d found Harry and helped her get sober in time for the wedding.

“You have quite a family, don’t you, Captain?”

“It got a little bigger today.” She smiled. She still felt that ache of missing a loved one, knowing it was for Thomas Balloch. He had been a friend of her father’s as long as she’d been alive, and had kept in touch with her after 1997 on and off throughout the years. When he had later had come out as a partner to Patrick Jameson, she had never hated him for turning his back on her father.

-&-

After a while, she went back to the head table and watched the party. It was nice to see Sherlock enjoying himself, he was going to sleep well after the craziness of their day. She was distracted from her dismal thoughts by a slight commotion by the door. It wasn’t any trouble, but she raised her head a bit to watch. She saw a server speaking to someone she couldn’t quite see because of a couple of guests in the way. The server looked around the room and she realized that someone had asked for her and Sherlock. She narrowed her eyes but stayed put as the server spotted her at the head table and pointed her out. Sherlock was over at another table speaking to some of their family and looked up, feeling her gaze. She waved a stand-down and he nodded. She wasn’t in any trouble, and he knew by now that if she needed him, she would be _very_ clear about it. She was distracted by someone approaching the table and turned her head as a shadow fell across her.

“There is something quite wrong with the world if the bride is sitting alone on her own wedding-day with that kind of look in her eye. You should be happy today, Hannah Watson.” He came around the table and stood behind just to her left, his hand coming to rest on her shoulder, a familiar, careful touch. Life-long familiarity with her moods and troubles was behind the touch, a care for how long it had been since they’d seen each other, and how much had changed since then. And, also, how much _hadn’t_. Hannah felt something in her chest give way, a tightness she had carried all day disappeared. He sat down in the empty chair beside her and hugged her before she broke down.

“I’m so sorry, my love. I tried so hard.”

“You’re here!”

“Don’t cry, don’t cry. It’s alright. I did my best.” He rubbed her shoulders, rocking her, “Oh, Hannah. Sweet little Hannah Watson. My little girl grew up when I wasn’t looking.” For the uncounted teenth time this day, Hannah was glad for water-proof, sweat-proof makeup. Against all hopes, and every fear, Thomas Balloch had made it. Not to the ceremony, and he’d missed most of the reception, but he was here now. And that, really, was all that mattered to Hannah. As he had when she had been a child, Thomas held her and let her cry. She heard him speak to someone, ask for something, but paid no heed. She was in safe arms, loving arms, and she felt only relief.

* * *

 


	16. Happily Ever After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The party continues, and Sherlock Holmes observes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is from Sherlock's POV as he observes Hannah with Thomas Balloch and reflects on what he knows and what he's learned.

* * *

Sherlock Holmes knew every single person they had invited to the wedding, how many had replied with “Yes”, and how many with “No”, and how many had left it at “Unknown”. They had purposely left places for those who had responded with an “Unknown”, on the outside chance they were able to make it. Among those who had been on the “Unknown” list was James Watson’s partner Thomas Balloch. Sherlock knew about Thomas, about his long, intimate history with the Watsons, who he was to James and especially to the triplets, who he was to Hannah. He had put word to Mycroft after discovering the man’s whereabouts and gotten his brother’s word that he would do what he was able to arrange things, but no promises had been made. If Thomas made it to the wedding, in any capacity, it would be a work of miracle, timing, and bloody good luck.

So, when a newcomer arrived towards the end of the evening, there was still plenty of time left but things had begun to wind down and Mary Morstan had taken her leave an hour ago to put her daughter to bed. John had gone with them but had returned to the party. Sherlock turned his head to track the newcomer, who was greeted warmly by several people in passing, stopped once by James, who seized the man by the arms, beaming and a bit more than tipsy. Sherlock was with some of his family at the time, and he simply observed. Whoever it was, James was very glad to see them, and Sherlock watched the two speak for a moment, observing body-language and such things as made his living as a detective. This wasn’t just a friend of the family, this was a relation. But not a cousin or a sibling. A spouse, or a partner? Hmm. Then, the man turned his head a bit and laughed, giving Sherlock an unobstructed view of his face.

“Oh.” It was a very soft, low sound that came out of his chest. That, if he wasn’t far mistaken, was Thomas Balloch. Hannah’s father. Well, second father. It was an unspoken chapter of the family history, an unacknowledged union kept from the wrong ears as best was possible. Attempts to use it against the parties involved had never quite gone as planned, Watson and Balloch were both well-liked and skilled, and the people who mattered cared far more about two able-bodied soldiers than a couple of spiteful rumours. That’s what they had considered Mallory Watson’s attempts to undermine her husband and his friend in their service to the Army, mere spiteful rumour stirred by a wife who imagined herself wronged in some fashion. She had accused them of improper liasons, of sleeping together and having intimate relations.

Later attempts had included running DNA and paternity testing on Hannah. John and Iain had been untouchable as they were being raised by other family members and she had no idea what had become of them after they were born. For all Mallory knew, they’d died in childbirth or in the post-natal period. The triplets had been born by Cesarean, as was typical for multiples. But the testing had brought back unexpected results, which had spurred the troubles of Hannah’s later childhood after James went missing and was listed dead in Northern Ireland. It was a secret that Sherlock had known for a while, and had never spoken of. It broke his heart to think that Hannah had never actually known a loving, stable family. The woman she had called mother was, in fact, no mother of hers. She had no biological bond with Mallory Watson. Her mother was a nameless, kind-hearted surrogate who had done so much when she became pregnant with triplets after James and Thomas decided they wanted children of their own and Mallory made it clear that she not only wanted no more children but she was not about to carry some fag’s child in _her_ womb.

It had been done discretely, and when the triplets had been born, John and Iain had been given to another family member to be raised as cousins to Hannah and Mallory and James’s eldest, Harriet. They had gone on to make an attempt as a family-unit, but Mallory’s infidelity and James’s absence had fractured the troubled family and when he had been injured and left without any concrete memory of who he was, James had simply started a new life for himself. He had eventually regained his memories but had kept his identity and continued survival secret from his family. Hannah and the boys had made the connection that they were sibling and not cousins sometime in the last few years, but it had not changed anything between them and Hannah had continued to live her life as she could. The boys had figured out who Patrick Jameson really was and reconciled with him, keeping it from their sister at his request until she was able to put the pieces together on her own time.  


-&-

  
When Sherlock had met Hannah in London, she was a broken woman struggling to piece her overturned life back together as best she could with her limited resources. He had never expected things to turn out the way they had, but he had little to regret of it. After all, he had gained so much more than a wife today. He had gained a match to him in intelligence, she was kind and harsh in equal turns as needed, her skills were insurmountable and invaluable to his work. He had a help-mate, a soul-mate, someone who completed him in ways he hadn’t known he needed. Someone who, against every odd, loved him for himself and wasn’t asking him to change anything that made him who he was. She accepted him as he was, flaws and troubled history all. She loved him for those things. Hannah was everything he had desired in a partner, and so much more beyond those simple things. She wasn’t the feisty girl of his childhood memories, she had changed in the years between them, but it was still his Hannah Watson, the girl he’d admired and perhaps had even loved when they were mere children.

When he looked for Hannah, she was seated at the head table, still, but the newcomer sat with her, holding her as she wept. It was Thomas Balloch, and he had come for his daughter’s wedding day. It broke Sherlock’s heart to see her cry, but his intervention would not be appreciated at this precise moment. He would wait.

After a while, Balloch coaxed Hannah away from the ruckus and they were gone for nearly half an hour. But when they returned, she was smiling and her eyes were clear. Sherlock watched as Balloch took Hannah onto the dance-floor, giving her a distraction. After a while, his brother-in-law came to find him.

“So, who’s the handsome bloke in uniform who stole your wife?” Greg Lestrade was well into his cups, not quite drunk but certainly well on his way there, “Watson?”

“One of them.” He smiled, taking a sip of his own drink, “That is Thomas Balloch.”

“Name’s familiar. So’s his face. Never met ‘im, though.”

“You wouldn’t have. He’s been stationed overseas until recently.” Sherlock watched the pair on the dance-floor, wondering for a moment if this made Balloch his father-in-law. Hmm. Most likely, considering Balloch was married to James Watson. It was a recent development, only in the last few years had they made it official.

“I have a very interesting family, don’t I?”

“Say that again.” Lestrade snorted, “So, who’s he to Hannah Watson?”

“Balloch is Hannah Watson’s father. I know you’re not drunk enough to work it out.”

“Her…what now?” Lestrade squinted, “Uh, hang on. Hang on a minute.” His brother’s husband went quiet as he worked it over in a foggy brain. When it hit him, Sherlock saw his eyes clear a bit.

“Oh! That’s James Watson’s husband! That’s...well, damn. I was wondering when I’d get to meet him!”

“Hannah would have been so relieved to know. She was missing him, I think.”

“She got her family today, the one that mattered. Reconciliation with her sister Harry, that was thanks to you, reunion with her fathers. The people she would have missed came for her special day.” Lestrade grinned, “It’s been a hell of a day, hasn’t it? Hell of a few months, more like.”

“It has been very interesting. And as bad as it has been, I would not trade any of it.”

“It’s been pretty bad, too, hasn’t it?” Lestrade grew grim, thinking back on the two weeks he and Hannah hadn’t seen or spoken to each other. That was behind them now and they were better people for it.

-&-

After a while, Sherlock decided to get his wife back from their guests. Lestrade wished him luck and Sherlock went to carefully get between Hannah and her father.

“Excuse me, Colonel. I would like my wife back.” Words he had never in a million years ever thought he would say. It felt so strange to say them, and yet so very, very right. He had timed it perfectly, the song had just ended. Hannah giggled and he got a quiet once-over from Thomas Balloch.

He remembered the man from his childhood, the rare occasions he had joined the Watsons on a trip to Scotland, and in his later years when he had encountered him outside of family events. He couldn’t recall why he’d seen so much of Balloch, but he had, and part of Sherlock was very glad for it.

“Well, I would say you’ve gone and grown up well on me, Sherlock Holmes, but I watched you grow up, watched over you for years and years. Did my damn best to keep you out of trouble.” Balloch smiled, shaking his head, “You did grow up well, lad. Damn well.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“So, you think you can handle my girl, then? Hasn’t run you off yet, has she?”

“No, sir. I think she might have tried, but I didn’t get the idea or like it much. I stayed.” He offered Balloch one hand, but his father-in-law wasn’t having anything of a measly handshake tonight and pulled Sherlock into a hug. There had been a time in his life where Sherlock had abhorred physical contact, hated it desperately, but that time was long behind him and he had come a long way from there. Now, if someone in his family-group wanted intimate contact, he let them do it.

“You take care of my little girl, Holmes. Look after her for us. Keep her straight.”

“I will, sir, I'll do my best.” He sighed and felt at peace, for once in his life. Hannah pulled him back onto the dance-floor, she still had enough energy for it, and Sherlock let her lead him.

* * *

 


	17. Epilogue: Home At Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A short little end-piece to cap off the first installment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another one from Sherlock's POV as they return to London, to Baker Street, to the lives they never had a chance to build together properly. Enjoy! I didn't expect for this part of the story to end, but it did! All by itself! A complete work! *gasp*

* * *

Four hours later, having said their farewells to their guests and taken leave, Sherlock turned his head to watch Hannah sleep. They were bound for London, for Baker Street. For home. Mycroft had gifted them exclusive use of his jet for their use. Wherever they wanted to go, his pilots would take them. And seeing as his brother owned three, the gifting of one was a small blessing.

Dynamics had changed after the events of the past year, but his brother was still someone to respect and fear in the government despite his influence being lessened a bit by scandal. Mycroft had taken a step back from politics, preferring to focus instead on his private life for a while. If they needed him, they knew where to find him.

 

As the plane finished its descent into London, Sherlock carefully reached across the space between their seats and nudged his wife in the ankle. Just at the same moment, the pilot brought them to ground with a soft bump and Hannah stirred.

“I missed it?”

“I'm sorry, love.” He smiled, knowing how she loved the view of a city from the sky, especially at night.

“I wanted to see it.”

“You needed your sleep.” He knew she wouldn't like that, but it was true. She made a face at him as they taxied and finally came to a stop.

“Next time, love, I promise.”

“I'll hold you to that.” She grumbled, sleepy and adorable. For the short flight home from Edinburgh, she wore her favourite denims and a new jumper, under which he was fairly certain she wore nothing besides a cami. Her parka was folded on the seat next to her, along with her scarf and carry-on. She unbuckled her belt and got up, collecting her things. As he left the plane, he nodded to the pilot.

“Thank you, Tristany.”

“My pleasure, Mr Holmes.” The pilot smiled as he debarked, trotting down the boarding-stairs right behind Hannah, who bee-lined for the waiting car.

“Baker Street, Jenkins.”

“Sir.” The driver nodded and touched his cap, closing the door behind Sherlock. It didn't take long to load in their small luggage, and soon they were on their way home to Baker Street.

Thirty minutes later, Jenkins opened the door for them and Sherlock ushered his very sleepy wife out of the car. Getting the door open was simple and he helped Jenkins move their things. Hannah stole the keys from him and went right upstairs. He smiled and thanked Jenkins, who wished him a good night and left again. Moving their bags upstairs, unpacking would happen _later_ , he followed Hannah to the back bedroom and found her in the bathroom brushing her teeth. Her clothes had been discarded by the bed and she wore nothing but her cami and pants. It was a lazy, fetching look on her, and he smiled as he watched her from the doorway of the bathroom. A lifetime of this was his. He was one very lucky bastard.

“What?” she caught him watching and made a face at him in the mirror as she spit, rinsed, and washed her brush.

“Nothing.”

“Liar.”

“A reflection, my dear Watson.” He slipped in as she vacated, “Counting myself a very fortunate man.”

“Hmm. And what makes you a fortunate man, then?”

“A simple thing.” He nudged the door closed and did his business quickly. He was legitimately tired and the idea of sleep, with Hannah beside him, was very tempting.

“What's a simple thing in the mad world of Sherlock Holmes, then?” she asked as he came out, turning out the bathroom light on his way.

“I never expected to live to forty, I never expected to find someone who meant more to me than The Work.”

“You never expected to find someone who didn't expect you to change everything that makes you Sherlock Holmes, who can keep up with you and take on all comers at your side, someone to guard your six and step in front of you for the right cause.”

“No. I really didn't. Especially not after the past few years, I certainly didn't.”

“Then I tumbled into your life and stayed.” Hannah was a wise woman, smart and insightful. “Did you think when you saved me that day in Whitechapel that we would ever end up _here_?”

“Not once.” he pulled the blankets back and sat on the bed, “I saw a future together, sharing my work with you and doing risky, stupid things together, but...no. I never thought I would marry.”

“Honestly? Neither did I.” She tugged the blankets up around her shoulders as she rolled to face him, “I thought my life was over after I got shot, what future did I have after that? I couldn't serve, I couldn't do surgery, I was useless.”

“Only in your own head. And getting stuck in one's head is a very terrible thing.” He reached out and took her hand, “You are one of the most useful people I've ever met, and I have met many, many people.”

“Someone's got to keep you out of trouble, Holmes. Might as well be me.”

“Well, to be fair, you _did_ say yes.” He chuckled and leaned in, kissing her on the nose. “Sleep for now. Plenty to do in the morning.”

“Ugh. Crime never takes a holiday.”

“Not precisely.” He pulled her close, tracing the outline of the scar on her shoulder. He would never admit how glad he was that such a devastating blow had brought him Hannah Watson, it wasn't fair to her for all of the things she had lost. But she had gained so much in turn.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

“Good night, Hannah.” He listened to her breathing even out and deepen, felt her body relax in his arms.

_**Good night, my dearest companion. True love, soul mate, everything.**_ He thought, content for once with the universe and its workings. Hannah was warm and solid against him, and he slept well with her in his arms. Sherlock had a whole lifetime of this to look forward to, and it was lovely. For once in his long, lonely life, things were starting to go right.

* * *

 


End file.
